My Ultimate Short Story Collection
by lilidelafield
Summary: Collected here, all my short stories, many of which will be challenge stories from L.J Dig in and enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**ELINOR**

"But why won't you come to the window and watch the storm, Illya?" Napoleon asked him, puzzled.

Illya was sitting slumped on his sofa, moodily cradling a mug of tea whilst Napoleon stood at the window gazing out into the storm.

"The view across the city at night is terrific at any time, but during a storm it becomes...almost magical!" 

Illya rolled his eyes. 

"You've been watching too much TV, my friend." he replied. "Why don't you come away from the window and close the curtains now?" 

Napoleon turned back to look at his friend. 

"Are you all right?" 

"I'm fine." 

"Have you never stood here to watch a thunderstorm?" 

"I prefer to close the windows and curtains and curl up with a book, preferably with music playing." 

"Who could hear any music anyway over the sound of that thunder overhead?"

Napoleon turned his attention back to the amazing sight outside. 

"Headphones." came the sullen reply. 

Napoleon turned back from the window, something in his friend's voice that caught his attention. A loud bang! sounded overhead and a crackling, and all the lights in the building went out. Illya jumped, then cursed in Russian. Napoleon frowned, and crossed the room in two strides. 

"Illya, it was the electric going down that's all...I expect the power-plant has been struck by lightning...the emergency generator will kick in, in a moment..." 

After a moment or two sitting in the darkened apartment, listening to the howling of the wind outside, the heavy rain battering against the windows, and the thunder, sounding like it was trying to shake the very building from its foundations, the lights came on again. Napoleon frowned worriedly, as he caught Illya in the act of replacing a cushion back on the seat beside him. 

"My friend, you don't like storms at all, do you?" 

Illya did not reply. Napoleon quickly crossed to the window and swung the heavy curtains closed, and turned back to find Illya hurried taking the top record from the pile on the floor and putting it on to play. He glanced at the mug of tea his friend was still sipping and smiled. 

"I think you need something stronger than tea, my friend. You got anything in?" 

When Illya nodded, Napoleon went into the kitchen, took two small bottles of vodka from the coolbox and handed one over. 

"Here, try this." 

"Thank you." 

They sipped their vodkas in silence for a few minutes, until Illya finally gave up trying to hear Stravinski over the sound of the thunder and turned it off. Napoleon sat back and regarded his friend.  
Illya was often quiet and moody. That did not worry Napoleon especially, but something was different this time. He had something on his mind. Napoleon was sure it was something to do with the storm. Illya was fingering his bottle, seemingly staring deep into its depths. 

"What is it that's eating you, my friend?" 

Illya sighed, opened his mouth, then seemed to change his mind and took a long swig at his bottle instead. 

"Do you not like thunderstorms, Illya? You don't like me standing there at the window. Why is that?" 

"I am not afraid of thunderstorms!" 

Napoleon smiled gently. 

"I know that. We've been caught out in storms before now. If you were afraid of them, I think I might have guessed by this time, but tonight it's different isn't it? How come?" 

Illya smiled slightly. 

"Very well. The answer is simply a matter of memory, Napoleon." 

"Memory?"  
Illya nodded. 

"When I first met my wife Elinor, we both loved thunderstorms. We used to go running outside during a storm and find somewhere wild and secret to shelter. A hollow tree, an old barn maybe? We would sit and tell each other stories of adventures on the high seas, often involving storms and shipwrecks." 

"How old were you?" 

Illya looked up at him through his long bangs. 

"Seven years old."  
Napoleon smiled. Illya smiled slightly. 

"It was stormy the day we got married. Good things always happened to us during thunderstorms…until the day that the KGB parted her from me…I remember the last time I kissed her as the thunder and lightning flashed overhead. Then the day I…the day…" 

Napoleon waited patiently until his friend composed himself and was able to continue. 

"The day you and I first met, when I rescued you from that satrap in Russia?* , I learned that both Elinor and Dimitri had died, drowned in the river Danube. I later learned that they had taken the river path as a shortcut home because of the storm. The river path cut twenty minutes off their walk home. Dimitri was scared of the thunder and ran off ahead, fell into the river, and Elinor went in to get him out. They were both swept away before she was able to get them both to safety. A thunderstorm, Napoleon brought the love of my life to me, and then my son, and then a thunderstorm ripped both of them away from me again. I do not fear the storm itself my friend, but I can't…the memories that thunderstorms bring back are just too…I would rather find a way to block them out." 

Napoleon felt his heart throbbing in his throat, full of pity for his friend. He knew better than to show any pity outwardly though. Instead he clapped his friend gently on the shoulder. 

"I understand Illya. I really do. But all your memories of storms were not bad. Would Elinor not be sad if she knew that you had lost your love of the storm because of what happened to her? Wasn't it the love of thunderstorms that brought you both together in the first place? Wouldn't it be better to try and remember the happy memories? Try and learn to enjoy storms again in her honour? Watch them for both of you? I'm sure that would make her happy." 

For a long time, Illya sat silently, listening to the sounds of the thunder, and the rain and the wind, then he turned slightly damp eyes to Napoleon. 

"Thank you my friend. You are a wise man. I think you are right. Elinor would have loved a thunderstorm over New York at night. Will you teach me to enjoy it again? For Elinor?" 

Napoleon smiled and opened the curtains once again. Together, they stood and watched the storm.

*Chasing Rainbows


	2. Chapter 2 Lost!

Short Affair Challenge, due 18/07/16

Prompt Word: Fever

Prompt Colour; black

 **Lost!**

Illya knocked loudly for the third time on his partner's front door, but still no answer; even to their private, coded knock. He frowned. The likelihood of Napoleon being up and out already was extremely low. Napoleon was a man who loved his luxuries. And at this time in the morning, that meant staying in bed until the last possible moment. Napoleon was not such a lover of the winter cold as was Illya.

Finally deciding to err on the side of caution, he fumbled for the key his partner had given him, and unlocked the door. The alarm had not been set. He instinctively reached for his gun. What had happened here? The apartment, often slightly untidy, looked a complete shambles. Even the cushions had been removed from the sofas and were now strewn all over the floor. The books had been pushed from the shelves and lay in a heap beside the scattered cushions. A cup of coffee only half drunk sat on the coffee table. Illya checked out its contents. Stone cold.

"Napoleon! Napoleon, where are you?"

There was no response. Illya swiftly searched the entire apartment, even inside some of the cupboards. No sign at all. Finally, he drew out his communicator and tried to raise Napoleon on that. There was no response. He was aware that Napoleon's communicator was working, but there was no answer to it. Worriedly, Illya switched channels.

"Open channel D."

"Channel D. Waverly here. Is everything all right, Mister Kuryakin?"

"Sir, has Mister Solo reported in this morning yet?"

"Not yet. Why, is there a reason for concern?"

"I'm not sure sir. He's not answering his communicator, it's too early for him to have had breakfast yet, and his apartment is empty and it looks like a hurricane has blown through."

"He could be…er…staying over with a friend, Mister Kuryakin."

Illya shook his head.

"No sir. Napoleon knows we are due to fly to Frankfurt this morning. He would not…he would make sure he is ready for duty on time, sir. I'm going to take a look around the area. I'll be in touch. Kuryakin out."

He flicked his communicator off and taking another calculating look round the room, he left the apartment, carefully setting the alarms and locking the door behind him.

Illya decided the first place to look would be the rear of the building, where the dustbins…no, sorry, _trashcans_ were stored. He mentally corrected himself.

In contrast with the posh looking building itself with its well-kept exterior and polished floors and bannisters, the rear was simply a yard, dusty and unkempt, about twenty or more _trashcans,_ in a neat row,many of them overflowing. From the end of the row, the area relating to the penthouse, Napoleon's apartment, Illya could hear faint sounds of scrabbling and panting. He hurried over.

The trashcan was lying on its side, its contents strewn all around, old empty milk cartons, vegetable peelings, takeaway boxes…

Illya put a hand over his mouth to hide a smile. Now he knew where his friend had disappeared to. All that could be seen of Napoleon Solo were the soles of his black slippers protruding from the rim, sounds of mutterings and frustrated oaths occasionally reaching Illya's ears.

"Napoleon, what are you doing in there? Setting up a second home?"

There was sudden silence, and then an awkward shuffling as Napoleon made his way out of the can backwards, on his hands and knees. When he finally emerged, his once red dressing gown was covered in dirt and smears, his face and hands dirty and grimy, his hair standing up on end, and his eyes frantically searching the ground, in a fever of agitation. As he looked like he was about to drop to his knees once more, Illya grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Napoleon, what is it? What have you lost? Aside from your marbles that is?"

"Ha ha, very funny, Illya. I have to find it! She'll kill me!"

Illya was confused.

"Who will kill you? Find what? Will you please talk to me? We have a plane to catch this morning remember, and you look like your shower is going to take a while."

Napoleon hung his head.

"I forgot about that. I'll have to get on the phone and apologize…again!"

"Apologize to who? What have you lost my friend? Perhaps I can help you to search."

"The ring! Aunt Amy's ring, Illya! It kept sliding off her finger, so I promised her I would get it downsized for her. She loves this ring. It was a gift from someone special when she was a girl…and now I've lost it! She'll never forgive me!"

Napoleon dropped to his knees once more and started rooting once again through the papers and cartons all over the floor. Illya experienced the unusual sensation of not knowing whether to laugh or groan.

"Napoleon, you did forget! You _were_ drunk! I told you that you were drunk, and that you would forget and you denied it!"

He looked up briefly from his frantic searching.

"Denied what Illya? And I'm _not_ drunk!"

Illya gave in finally and laughed.

"Napoleon, you were drunk three nights ago at the Purple Unicorn. You got up to dance and you gave ME Aunt Amy's ring for safekeeping. You asked me to take it to the jeweler for you the following morning. I picked it up again on my way here. I thought you would want to take it back to her on the way to the airport."

Illya held up the dainty, beautiful diamond ring. Napoleon fell upon it eagerly.

"You've got it!"

He danced around briefly in his excitement, then turned back to his friend.

"Couldn't you have reminded me _before_ I trashed my apartment looking for it?"

Illya clapped an arm round his shoulders.

"Come along my friend, you need a shower, and we have a diamond ring to deliver!"


	3. Chapter 3 - The Puffer-Fish

The Short Affair challenge. Word: itch/ colour: yellow.

 **The Puffer-fish**

"Illya, will you open up already?"

"No!"

"Illya, we have work to do. Come on!"

"Go away Napoleon!"

"Look, we promised we would help April today. You can't let her down. She has only this afternoon to move all her stuff to her new apartment, so you've gotta help. Come on!"

"She'll understand."

Napoleon knocked even louder. Why was Illya being so stubborn today? It had been his idea to get the whole move done in one afternoon by everyone helping out so that they could all leave for their next assignments on time, and April would have an apartment to return to, her current apartment having been closed down indefinitely due to her landlord having sold the building to developers. He shouted again, but this time his partner did not even deign to answer.

"Illya, is something wrong?"

"Are you still here Napoleon? Go away!"

"You're worrying me Illya, at least give me a reason. Are you sick?"

"I'm fine."

"Then open up!"

He heard a grumble and muttering, and knew that the Russian was calling him a selection of colourful names in his own language. He grinned. He could live with that, so long as his partner was all right. It always worried Napoleon when Illya started acting out of character. He heard the door being unlocked, the bolts sliding back and he guessed the alarm had been turned off, but the door did not open.

Napoleon was suddenly more concerned than ever. He pushed the door open himself and peered inside. At first he saw no one. Once he stepped inside, he glanced around the room, and spied his partner standing behind the door. He stared.

His first thought was that Illya was wearing some kind of a mask, but the words "What on earth are you wearing?" died on his lips when he realized this was no mask.

Illya's face had ballooned to twice its normal size, or more, making his eyes almost vanish amid the puffy flesh; His lips appeared to be turning yellow, and his hands looked in the process of raising large red weals.

"What the…?" Napoleon darted forward, full of alarm.

"What the hell has happened? That looks sore!"

Illya nodded miserably.

"And it is starting to itch infernally too!"

"How is your breathing affected? Is your airway swelling up?"

"Nyet."

Napoleon shook his head, his alarm not abating.

"But it might do. April will have to wait, Illya, I'm getting you into medical."

Illya looked suddenly panic stricken.

"Nyet! No! You can't make me walk through the corridors of UNCLE looking like a puffer-fish!"

"You need medical help, Illya. If this starts constricting your airway, you will choke to death. Put a paper bag over your head if you are that worried about it…or wrap your face up in a thick scarf until we arrive. But we are going. Now! No arguments."

In despair, Illya grabbed from a cupboard his motorcycle helmet and lowered the tinted visor, and with extreme reluctance, he followed Napoleon down to his car.

En route, Napoleon contacted April, who replied that she quite understood and hoped everything would be okay. He tried to question Illya about what had caused such a horrific adverse reaction, but Illya's voice was badly muffled inside his helmet and Napoleon realized he would just have to be patient.

When they arrived in headquarters, the sensation Illya caused simply by walking through the corridors beside Napoleon clad scruffily in ripped jeans, an old vest, a checked shirt swinging open and a full-faced motorcycle helmet still sitting incongruously on his head was in Napoleon's opinion going to be far more memorable than if he had just gone for the plain _puffer-fish_ look and been done with it.

Inside medical, Illya insisted that all non-essential people were made to leave before he consented to remove his helmet. The helmet was now a much snugger fit than it was designed to be, and Doctor Peterson had to help him pull it off. The doctor stared at his patient for several seconds, as though not believing what he was seeing. Illya's face had swollen even larger, and his lips had a definite yellow outer edge, as though some child had drawn them in yellow and coloured inside the lines using pink. The doctor checked Illya's airway, and made sure he was still safe.

"You're okay for now, but it is starting to close up Mister Kuryakin. Ten minutes more and you would have been in serious trouble. Lie down."

"What is it doc?" Napoleon asked him. "An allergy?"

Peterson nodded.

"Something he has eaten. What have you eaten today for the very first time?"

"Nothing."

The doctor frowned.

"What did you have for breakfast?"

"Sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, toast, tomatoes…"

"What about lunch?"

There was a pause.

"Shellfish."

"What kind?"

"All kinds…crayfish, lobster, shrimp, cockles, mussels, prawns, crab…"

The doctor blinked.

"Woah…all in one meal?"

Illya shrugged.

"I was hungry."

"Hmmm."

The doctor prepared an injection of adrenalin, and without warning, plunged the needle into his patient.

Illya yelped involuntarily, and looked up at the doctor.

"I've not had seafood for a long time, so I ordered a load in…several platters. I thought I'd try it…"

"You ate the lot? All in one go?"

Illya looked slightly sheepish.

"I was hungry…and it was so delicious…"

He sighed, and glanced at his reflection in the glass door of the cabinet beside him.

"A couple of hours later though…"

The doctor nodded.

"You've not had it for a very long time right? And then you overindulged? I would say you've developed an allergic reaction to shellfish Mister Kuryakin."

Illya looked anguished. Napoleon shook his head, trying keep his face straight.

"You and your appetite, Illya. I knew it would get you into trouble one day!"

Illya glanced at the doctor, advancing with a pot of cream.

"So what about the lobster dinner I ordered for tonight?"


	4. The Ice Prince Affair

"This is the greatest feeling in the world!"

The icy wind blew in Illya's face as he removed his goggles and glanced around at the brilliant whiteness. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun shone down bright and **yellow** on Illya's bare head, and the icy snow beneath his skis excited him in a way he hadn't felt for a long time.

"Aren't you cold, Illya?"

Illya glanced at his friend, the excitement and exuberance making him grin broadly, in a way he never did at work. Napoleon was thickly covered in thick layers of clothing, without a hint of pink skin to be seen anywhere. Illya shook his head.

"You must be melting under all that clothing, my friend."

Napoleon's only concession was raising his goggles on to his forehead, showing his eyes peering at Illya and squinting as the sun reflected harshly off the white snow.

"Rather too warm than too cold. Do you really come out here and do this for fun?"

Illya laughed.

"I take it you have never been skiing before?"

"Never by choice."

"Have you been on skis before?"

"Why would I want to do this Illya? Come to a place where the wind chill is thirty degrees below, and launch myself down a hill on two metal prongs?"

Illya clapped him on the shoulder.

"You've never been skiing before. You have no idea what you have been missing, my friend, and Lake Louise is one of the most stunningly beautiful places I have ever visited. I don't understand why you don't come here every February!"

"Illya, when I am up to my knees in snow in New York City, why on earth would I choose to come here where the snow is up to my armpits, and the cold is even colder? I would rather soak up some sun somewhere warm...nice beach, golden sun, pretty girl…"

Illya clapped him on the shoulder.

"Have no fear Napoleon. I will make a skier of you yet. You know how to ski on a flat surface, but going downhill is different…"

Napoleon turned worried eyes on his partner.

"You actually expect me to launch myself down this slope? It looks like a sheer drop!"

Illya shook his head, laughing.

"Napoleon what are you most afraid of?"

"What the hell do you think Illya? Falling on my backside and getting hurt!"

"Would you like me to give you the trick of not doing that?"

"I already know it, Illya. Stay at home."

Illya smiled.

"The only way back down is on skis."

"But we're higher than the treetops!"

"Napoleon, Do you trust me?"

"With my life Illya, you know that."

"And would it be in my own interest to get you killed or injured up here?"

Napoleon saw his point, but it did not help his rising feeling of dread. He looked at Illya's face. Illya had removed his hat completely, along with his goggles, his blond hair blowing in the wind. Illya was completely sincere, Napoleon had no doubt of that; and he knew that skiing would likely have been a given where he came from, given the amount of snow they endured every winter. Illya definitely knew what he was doing, Napoleon had already seen that for himself. He really did trust his partner, and who knew when being able to ski downhill might be needed on a mission?

"Okay partner, I'm in your hands. What do I do?"

Illya smiled and demonstrated.

"Point the tips of your skis towards each other...no, more than that…too much…perfect! Now you bend your knees and lean forward…crouch slightly lower than that. If you are going downhill, you have to put yourself at the same angle as the hill, but still bending forward…"

"But it feels like I am going to do a forward roll!"

Illya smiled.

"I know, but you won't. If you try and stand vertically, your skis will shoot off down the hill without you attached, you really will land on your backside and probably get hurt, and even if you don't hurt yourself, you will have to walk all the way back down the hill to retrieve your skis. Trust me my friend, keep yourself at this angle in relation to your skis when you are going downhill. If you want to stop, push out with your heels. Try it…"

He watched his partner push himself off down the slope, crouching forward over his skis, his poles behind him racing style. Illya covered his face with his hands. He had known his partner would be a natural at this as he seemed to be at everything else. Napoleon moved slowly down the hill, his skis angled to keep him moving slowly, until he came to a halt at the foot of the initial slope. He raised his ski pole and waved triumphantly at Illya.

"I did it!"

Illya pushed off and was beside him in a second. Napoleon stared at him.

"Can you teach me how to do those turns you were doing? That looks like fun!"

"Would you not rather practice what you are doing first? Get comfortable first going downhill before you progress further?"

Napoleon nodded.

"Lifts again?"

"Yes."

They made their way to the small mini lifts, and each caught the bar easily and let it drag them up the slope. As they reached the top, just as he had done the first time, Napoleon let go of the bar and allowed his momentum to carry him out of the way. Illya caught his right ski on a stone which brought him to an abrupt halt. The moving lift clouted him on the back of the head and the next thing he knew, he was face down in the snow. He groaned and rolled over. Napoleon was grinning at him.

"I see what you mean partner mine. Your skis have gone down without you. Do you want to walk, or shall I go down and **carry** them up for you?"


	5. Chapter 5 - The Promise

Napoleon shuddered, and clutched miserably at the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same scene all over again. Himself grappling with Ludovic, fighting for control of the pistol, then Ludovic had wrenched himself free with a heave of immense strength, pushing Napoleon to the ground. He had lain on his back, propped up on his elbows staring up at the muzzle of the gun pointing at him…and then…"

Napoleon shuddered again and wiped away a tear that dared to stray down his face. It was mistake, it had to be! Illya, that stupid, idiotic, foolhardy, brave, amazing Russian had come barreling in from the side, and both of them had gone tumbling into the river. Napoleon had heard the sound of the gun firing, and then there was Ludovic breaking the surface of the river and swimming raggedly to the shore where four section three agents had taken him prisoner. Illya, however, had not reemerged. Not for some five minutes. Napoleon had found himself running alongside the raging torrent, searching frantically for some sight of his partner. As soon as the blond head was sighted, He had plunged in…swum across to get to him, but it had been too late.

Napoleon had watched as paramedics worked feverishly on Illya for30 minutes until they finally called it. Illya was dead. He died saving Napoleon Solo's life. A noble act, all the more as Napoleon knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would be exactly the way Illya would have chosen to go had he had a choice in the matter. Unfortunately, as the unwilling recipient of such a noble gift, all Napoleon wanted to do was scream.

He felt more tears threatening, and his nose too was stuffy. God, he needed to get away, go home and wallow in private. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and paused, electrified, as his fingers found a long metallic object. He drew it out. It was a large **copper** key…the one Illya had given him a few months ago. He gulped and staggered to his feet, removing the blanket from his back.

"Sir, are you all right, sir?"

It was one of the section three men, the one assigned, apparently, to take care of him.

"No Agent Carberry, my partner has just died saving my life, so right now I am not all right. I am a long way from all right!" He started to walk away. Carberry was trotting after him frantically.

"Sir, Mister Solo, the doctor says you should stay here for now…"

He felt Carberry pull at his arm, trying to hold him back. Napoleon shrugged him off. He vaguely heard in the distance Carberry's voice still calling him, "Mister Solo! Mister Solo, come back!"

Napoleon walked away from the scene, climbed into his car and drove home, breaking several speed limits in his hurry to get far away from all the sympathetic eyes. Waverly would expect him to report in the morning, then medical and psyche evaluations…he threw open his apartment door and slammed it closed behind him with a force that surely shook the building. His feelings were starting to break through now. At first he had experienced terror at the knowledge of his loss, how would he get through every day at UNCLE now without his partner and best friend? How could he live with himself knowing that it was his fault that Illya had died? Then grief had hit him with a force like a sledgehammer. Now it was anger, at himself for being unequal to the struggle with Ludovic, a man twice his size, but mostly his anger was directed at Illya. Illya who had thrown himself in front of knives and bullets before to save Napoleon and survived. He had pushed his luck once too often and he had paid the ultimate price for it. They both had. He started to scream, to cry out, in anguish and despair, in anger and rage at Illya for throwing his life away so easily.

It was his own screams that awakened Napoleon. He sat up all in a rush, sweaty and grief stricken, tears pouring down his face. He sat on the edge of the bed and breathed slowly, trying to calm himself.

"Napoleon, are you all right?"

Napoleon stared. Illya had snapped on his bedside lamp and was propped up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes blearily with the other hand.

"Was it a nightmare?"

Napoleon seized his tumbler of water and splashed it into his own face, in an effort to make the illusion go away. Instead the illusion got out of bed and came across the room, full of concern.

"You're white as a sheet, and you're trembling! You need a shot of something I think."

Napoleon found his voice.

"Illya…are you real?"

He held out his hand towards his friend's face and then paused uncertainly.

"May I?"

Illya nodded, aware that this nightmare, whatever it was, had shaken his friend to the very core.

"Be my **guest**."

Napoleon touched Illya's face with his outstretched hands, feeling the warm skin under his fingers, the feel of his friend's very much alive breath.

"Napoleon, what was it? What could have done this to you?"

"I was reliving everything…except in my nightmare you didn't come back up…you drowned. You were dead Illya, and it was so real…so real!"

Unable to stop them, tears slipped down Napoleon's face. The images were still so very vivid; it would be a long time before he ever forgot them…if he ever did.

"Promise you'll never die on me, Illya."

Illya smiled at his friend.

"You know I cannot give you that promise, any more than you can give it to me. I can make one promise though?"

"Yes?"

"I promise to _try_ never to die on you?" Illya smiled. "You've had a shock. I think we could both use a drink!"


	6. Chapter 6 The Argument

For five days Napoleon and Illya had been avoiding each other.

At staff briefings they had seated themselves at opposite ends of the table, where they did not have to directly interact with one another. If one of them was in their office doing paperwork, the other always seemed to have plenty to do elsewhere. At first it was regarded as an amusing coincidence, but as the days wore on, it became clearer and clearer to everyone that their CEA and his partner had fallen out.

All the stranger, as one and all, if asked, would have declared that Solo and Kuryakin were the least likely of anyone to fall out over anything. Their partnership had always been so solid and their friendship so deep, that they had been much envied. Now, however, it seemed, things had changed big time.

Napoleon continued his work, on the surface at least exactly as he had always done, with the exception that everything he did, he did without Illya. Illya on the other hand strode through the corridors of UNCLE with a grim expression that defied anyone to speak to him about anything that was not strictly work related. No one dared to ask Illya what had happened between the two. For the curious, Napoleon was definitely the least scary option. Agent Dancer was the one designated to make the approach. She objected in no uncertain terms.

"They are both **mature** men!" she retorted, "They have the right to their own privacy. And to sort their problems out in their own time!"

Lisa Rogers raised her eyebrows at that.

"Are you sure about that, April? When my brothers fell out like that, mom would lock them both into their bedroom until they sorted things out."

April shook her head.

"You're not a section two, Lisa, so I don't expect you to understand this, but you don't come between a section two agent and their partner. If they have problems with each other, they sort it out themselves. No one else can interfere. No one. That is a cardinal rule. It would be the worst mistake possible. It could even lead to the break-up of a partnership."

"But…"

"Has Mister Waverly said anything?"

Lisa shrugged.

"He simply said it will blow over. But I'm not sure it will."

April frowned.

"If Mister Waverly is confident, why are you worried?"

"I don't know…"

"It sounds to me as if they are handling things the best way they can."

"But refusing to talk to each other?"

April sighed.

"How do you know they are not talking? Simply because they have not been observed together for a few days? Trust Mister Waverly, Lisa, and trust the guys. Who knows what went on in their last assignment? It was top secret after all."

"I suppose so…"

Napoleon was finishing the last debriefing of his agents just after five that evening when there was a knock at the door.

"Come!"

He looked up and grinned when April Dancer popped her head round the door.

"Hi! Got a minute?"

"For you, anytime."

April came in and closed the door carefully behind her.

"Just came to deliver a verbal report for you, boss."

Napoleon smiled.

"Ah! How is it going?"

April raised her thumb and grinned at him.

"Going great! The entire staff are convinced that you and Illya hate each other, and that you are about to call each other out or something. I've just had to convince Lisa not to come marching down here trying to solve your problems for you."

"Everyone believes?"

"Except Mark and I of course, and Mister Waverly who are in on the plan. No doubt our THRUSH spy believes in your argument with all his or her heart. "

"Any clues yet?"

"No one obviously celebrating. You might have to simply walk into whatever trap they are planning for you."

Napoleon nodded.

"If we only knew whether their primary target was myself or Illya."

"Well if you find out, don't tell Illya straight away. He looks like he would like to kill them with his bare hands."

"I know. He's pretty angry for real about the whole situation. April, get Mister Waverly's okay to monitor every single communication in and out of headquarters. Everything."

"Quite an invasion of privacy."

"I know, but it is the only way we will find our infiltrator. Lisa and Illya could do the job between them, starting as soon as possible. Whoever it is will be calling in their success, right?"

April nodded.

"I'll go right now."

To bait the trap, in the commissary the following morning, Solo and Kuryakin contrived to meet and start a huge argument. Needless to say, they were convincing, leaving all their colleagues stunned at witnessing their final break-up.

Lisa and Mister Waverly were in his office, monitoring all the frequencies. Outside in the UNCLE mobile office in the back of a large lorry, Illya and Mark were also monitoring. It wasn't long before they heard what they were waiting for. A female voice, reporting to THRUSH that the object had been achieved.

"Where is the transmission point?"

"The roof!" Mark replied, getting up.

On the roof, Jill Watson, newcomer in the communications hub hid her THRUSH communicator inside her **blue** sweater, and turned, looking pleased with herself. She stopped, stunned. Napoleon and Illya were walking towards her, side by side. Both were smiling grimly.

"Sorry about the punch, my friend." Illya was saying.

"Not at all!" Napoleon replied, removing his gun from his jacket and pointing it in her direction. "It was worth it to be able to stop all this play-acting!"

Jill frowned.

"Play-acting? You mean…you were acting all this time?"

Illya nodded.

"Just another mission. Just another defeat for THRUSH!"

He gestured to his partner.

"This man followed me the length and breadth of my homeland a while ago at great personal cost. No THRUSH will ever come between us!"

He grabbed her roughly.

"You have made a very big mistake…!"


	7. Chapter 7 - The Letter

Alexander Waverly stood in the hallway of his home, fingering the package that had just arrived by special messenger. He had had to examine the package for tampering, and then sign to say it had been received intact with seals unbroken. He recognized the seal well enough. The package had come a long way, and its arrival heralded sad news. No, tragic news.

His wife Katherine crept up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"You're putting on a little weight around the middle my dear. It's getting harder to do this now."

She paused when he did not rise to her bait, and released him, suddenly aware that something was awry.

"What is it my love?"

He turned and kissed her on the nose and showed her the package, with the seal facing her.

"Fosbrook, Aisling and **Gaunt** Solicitors, City of London…? Darling, is this what I think it is?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I think so. They always represented my parents, and following their deaths, my sister Agnes."

Alexander Waverly's sister Agnes was his elder by some nine years, and had of late been suffering increasingly, it was told, from dementia. Her husband Henry had been taking care of her until his own failing health had finally made it necessary for both of them to be taken into a special retirement home to be cared for by medical professionals. The distance involved, and the fact that Henry and Agnes were so elderly and infirm meant that Alexander had been unable to do a great deal to help in the day to day matters. Katherine was aware that her husband had become increasingly worried about both of them for the last several weeks.

"Come into the parlour, darling and sit down for a moment. Open the package in comfort. Come along."

He followed his wife obediently into the parlour and sat in his favourite wicker chair looking out on to the back lawn bordered by a bubbling stream and two willow trees. She smiled at him.

"Are you going to open it Alexander? It does mean bad news doesn't it?"

"I imagine so, although…"

He shook his head, and with deft fingers, broke the seal and opened the package.

Inside the package was a handsome presentation box in dark blue with silver lettering, wrapped with a silver ribbon tied in a bow. The elderly couple stared at the box for a long moment, then Waverly looked up into the eyes of his wife. She was dabbing at her tears with a linen handkerchief.

"Oh Alexander, I'm so sorry…"

He held up his hand.

"Wait, here's a letter…" he looked up in surprise. "Kath, the letter is not from the solicitors at all. It's from Henry."

"From Henry? What does he say?"

Alexander opened the letter and read it over quickly to himself, and then smiled slightly.

"The sly old fox!" he muttered to himself. "Katherine, it isn't what we thought at all. Listen to this;

"Dear Alex,

It has been a while old man since we were able to get together over a few jars, but I like to think there is still a few miles in the old bones yet. The thing is, your poor sister, our Aggie is starting to go downhill, mentally. Although she is slowly losing her memory, her body is still as healthy as ever, and so far, she still remembers who I am and she asks after you and Kath very regularly, and every one of your children, so with the help of the lovely girls at this place, we rub along together pretty well.

The reason for getting in touch now though is your mother's wedding ring. As you know, **purple** diamonds are very rare and expensive, and we are both very determined that it should reach you and Katherine intact.

Alex, forgive me please if I am being crass here, as I have no idea of your financial situation, and I am not asking. Neither do I have any knowledge what the laws might be in your locality with regards inheritance tax, but if I leave it until Aggie and I have both gone, you will have to pay it, whether it comes under British law or US law. I do know that the value of the ring is likely to land a tax bill in the lap of an ordinary man so high he would have to sell the ring in order to pay it. Therefore, Agnes and I both have decided together to gift it to you now, and as you can see, our solicitors have witnessed that the ring is no longer in our ownership. It is Aggie's wish, and she has begged me to say so directly, that the ring should go to Katherine, and that you should pass it down to your eldest daughter as her inheritance. She too should pass it down ad infinitum.

I need not explain that to you of course, but Aggie is most anxious and I have found it pays to accede to her fears rather than aggravate them.

With fondest love and greetings my dear Alex to you and your loving Katherine,

Henry and Agnes"

Alexander Waverly looked up from the letter and found Katherine staring at the blue box in her hand with almost reverential awe.

"This is it? Your mother's wedding ring, to go from mother to daughter?"

Alexander nodded.

"Henry and Aggie had no children of course, so mother's ring comes to you…"

To his surprise, Waverly's voice cracked. To cover the moment, he coughed and opened the box carefully. Katherine gasped. A huge purple diamond, surrounded by smaller white diamonds in a solid silver setting. She picked it up and stared at it from every angle.

"It's exquisite!" She looked at her husband with tears in her eyes. "It's too good for me to wear!"

Alexander hugged her.

"Katherine my love, the ring is beautiful. _You're_ exquisite!"


	8. Chapter 8 HUSH

"Cock-a-doodle-dooo!"

The crowing of a cockerel startled the two lovers, lying in one another's arms beneath the bushes. They giggled and kissed again.

"Mwoooaah!"

Lucy pulled away from the kiss and raised her head.

"Did you hear a cow or am I going loopy?"

Her companion raised himself on his left elbow and stared at her, listening hard.

"Mwoooaah!"

"Unless we're both going loopy. But there are no cows in Central Park."

They listened, but all they could hear now were the birds twittering and the distant sound of children playing.

"Good, they've gone. Where were we?" He lay down again and Lucy slipped her hand inside his shirt.

"About…here I think…"

"Oink! Oink! Oink!"

Lucy pulled free and struggled to a sitting position. She looked around.

"Pigs! Tim, are you sure this is Central park and not your uncle's farm in Illinois?"

"Of course its Central Park, and they don't have pigs, cows or cockerels in Central Park."

"They have a zoo, don't they?"

Tim laughed and shook his head.

"How many zoos have you been to Lulu that have cows and pigs on display? It's gotta be some guy pulling a prank on us, that's all."

Lucy got up and looked all around.

"There's a little old lady on that bench just here…do you think it might be her? There's no one else around."

At that moment, a chill ran up and down their spines at the sound of an evil cackle that seemed to come from right behind them. Lucy whipped around. All she saw was the bush. She clung to Tim, who put his arm around her.

"All right Lulu." He said, putting a brave face on it. "Let's get out of here."

As they hurried away, they heard the distinctive sound of a wolf whistle. Still no one in sight. They started to run.

They bought themselves a soda and chose a bench to sit on next to the path away from talking trees or bushes or disembodied cackles.

As they sipped their drinks, cuddling close together, they played their old game of Passing Strangers. They would pick out a stranger passing by, and the other would have to decide what they did for a living. The first was a young red-headed woman wearing jeans and a white shirt, walking alone, looking left and right, as though she had lost someone.

"Her!" Lucy nodded at the woman. Tim grinned.

"Easy. She's a housewife. Taking the family dog for a walk. She's lost it by the looks of it."

Lucy agreed. Next, from the other direction came a handsome man, dressed in an immaculate dark grey suit, navy tie, perfectly manicured, with dark hair and eyes.

"What about that one?"

Lucy smiled slightly as she studied him.

"Hmmm." She watched the man approach the woman, and they were both looking all around and talking earnestly.

"Looks like they know each other. Perhaps they're both looking for a lost dog. Otherwise he could be anything. A bank manager?"

Tim nodded. He glanced around looking for another target. He soon spotted one. This one was dressed in sweats, large perspiration stains under both arms and in a wide strip down his back. He was small, with a shock of fair hair and startlingly blue eyes.

"What about him?"

"Oooh, he's dreamy!" Lucy seemed to forget everything else as she watched the blond man jogging closer. Tim nudged her indignantly.

"Oi!"

She grinned at him.

"He's not real. He's every girl's dream date."

"Be serious!"

"I dunno. He looks pretty smart. A doctor maybe? A scientist?"

"A scientist? Are you for real? He looks like he's only just out of college! He might be a boxer in training?"

"No way!"

Lucy disagreed. She grabbed his arm.

"Look, that other two…he knows them too!"

The three strangers all seemed to be talking earnestly, and as the young lovers listened, an odd word drifted to their eager ears.

"…find it…never…trouble…try an **orange** …"

Tim and Lucy looked at each other.

"Whatever they are looking for, it seems important."

"We could offer to help?"

They got up and strolled up the path. The young woman looked up and pointed at the two teenagers coming towards them.

"Why don't we just ask?"

Her companions looked skeptical and she shrugged.

"Couldn't hurt."

Lucy smiled as they approached.

"You guys are looking for someone…or something? We got nothing else to do. Can we help you search?"

The young woman nodded and gestured to her friends.

"I'm April. That is Napoleon, Illya. We've lost a Mynah bird. Black, with an orange beak…he's called Hush, and he doesn't like crowds…he flew away… **Stressed out!"**

"A stressed out Mynah bird?"

April nodded.

"He's very talkative. You could keep your eyes and ears open…"

Lucy and Tim stared at one another and started laughing.

"Cockerels, cows and pigs, a wolf whistle and an evil cackle…right?" Grinned Tim. The others looked at one another. Illya nodded.

"You have evidently heard him somewhere?" he said in a sexy accent. Tim nodded. "This way."

They led the three strangers back to their favourite bush.

"We were…er…down there when we heard all those weird noises. We thought the park was haunted. It must be your mynah bird."

April brought out an orange from her pocket and started to peel it, and called softly.

"Hush…come on now…Hush!"

"You sound ridiculous!" Illya muttered darkly. "Fancy calling it Hush!"

"It's such a noisy bird, that's all anyone ever said to it!" April replied with a grin. "Hush!"

There was a screech and a black bundle of feathers landed on the red head's shoulder and started to peck at the oranges in her hand. She smiled warmly.

"Thank you for your help." They turned to go.

"Wait!" Tim called. The three paused and glanced back, Hush growing restive. Tim shuffled his feet.

"Um…could you tell us what you do for a living?"

The three strangers smiled at one another.

"We work for our UNCLE" April replied.


	9. Chapter 9 -iN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

"That, my dear Illya, is hideous!"

Illya frowned.

"What's hideous about it Napoleon?

Napoleon stared at the material in disbelief. Basic black background…yes, very Illya, but what was all this? Red checkered lines, and worse still, all that unbelievably gaudy yellow patterning? Was Illya for real? Apparently he was.

"Well, you don't have to live with it, my friend. I like it. It's cheerful."

Napoleon nodded slowly.

"Well, yes, but for a bedroom? As curtains, Illya, that goes beyond cheerful! It's so loud, it'll keep you awake all night!"

Illya smirked.

"It will give me some privacy, and that is all that matters to me, my friend."

"And it's cheap."

"I like the colours."

"And it's cheap."

"I don't like changing in the bathroom because it is too cramped in there, so I need…"

"Illya, just admit it, you like it because it's cheap."

"All right, if you insist, the low price did give me an added incentive for buying it, yes."

"I thought so. You chose it because it's cheap. Illya, the only thing that material is good for is to make cushion covers for the cat's basket…I think even your cat would object to such loud material!"

Illya rolled his eyes.

"Look, Napoleon, you don't have to live with it, but I promise you it will not look as bad as you appear to think. Just be grateful I didn't decide to buy the matching wallpaper as well!"

Napoleon buried his face in his hands and shook his head.

"Perish the thought. When are you hanging them?"

"Today of course. Why should I wait even longer?"

Napoleon nodded slowly.

"Well…don't say I didn't warn you, that's all. Look, I have to go. I have some chores to run. I'll come by tomorrow at seven to pick you up for work?"

Illya nodded.

"Thank you. See you tomorrow."

Once Napoleon was gone, Illya set to work, sewing his new, admittedly loud material for his curtains, and hung them at the window in his bedroom. He stood back in the doorway to study the effect. He had painted his bedroom walls a very pale lemon colour a few days ago in an attempt to escape the dull white, and his bed was covered with a burgundy bedspread. The new curtains at the windows, drawn back and tied with burgundy cord looked surprisingly stylish. To him at any rate. It was not as though he was going to spend hours in here staring at the curtains was he? His only reason for going into his bedroom would be to close his eyes. To Illya it was irrelevant the colours of his bedroom, for the very reason that it was a room to sleep in.

He returned to his sitting room and found he still had plenty of material left over. He looked around the room. Napoleon had frequently called it Spartan, and so it was, but it suited him well enough, but why not dress it up a little whilst he had the spare material?

There was not enough material left to make curtains for this room as well, but the black curtains he had secretly bought yesterday would do well in here. It would go well with the new black cover he had procured for his sofa. Fine, then cushion covers it would be. He had two fait cushions in his bedroom that he sometimes used as bolsters, so he would make covers for them and put them in here. Illya set to work, and sewed industriously until he had a pair of matching cushion covers. It didn't take him long to hang his new sitting room curtains, and the covers for the sofa took mere seconds to fit and strap in place. Once he was finished, he threw his new-look cushions on the sofa, and, being as it was now quite late, he went to bed…and closed his eyes.

The next morning, Napoleon knocked on his partner's door, half an hour earlier than he was expected. He was eager to see Illya eating his words about those hideous curtains he had bought. Illya opened the door still wrapped scantily in a towel and scowled.

"You're early. Kicked out of bed were you?"

"Har har!" Napoleon entered glancing round the room casually. "So did you get your…"

His voice dried up. This living room yesterday had been bare. Off-white walls, no curtains or even nets at the windows, an ugly orange sofa and no carpet on the black tiled floor. He stared now. The floor was still bare black tiles, but the sofa was covered with a smart black cover, the windows were now dressed with black curtains, pulled back to let the light stream in…and that awful, curtain material…two cushions nestled on the black sofa clad in that lurid material and it did not look awful or lurid at all. It looked…he had to admit…surprisingly good. He suddenly realized Illya was watching him with a smirk on that annoying face.

"Napoleon, your mouth is open. You are starting to look like your aunt Amy's stuffed fish!"

"But Illya, this…this…"

"You approve?" Illya looked amused.

"Um…yeah. What about the garish curtains? Do they look as good?"

"See for yourself."

Napoleon poked his head round Illya's bedroom door and his eyes opened wide. Not at all to his personal taste, but he had to admit, that those curtains, in the right setting, looked…looked different. Somehow the red patterning that was virtually deafened by the yellow was quietly drawn out by the use of the pale lemony colour on the walls, and the burgundy bedspread and curtain ties. The yellow still stood out, but it was greatly muted.

"It…uh."

"Is it as loud as you expected my friend?"

"Well, I uh…it is still rather loud, in my opinion, but it does look a lot better than I expected."

Illya smiled.

"It does the job, Napoleon. For me a bedroom is for sleeping in, not entertaining visitors. Most of the time I spend in my bedroom I have my eyes shut. What difference does it make what colour the curtains are? Now will you please give me some privacy while I get dressed?"

Illya was quickly ready, and as they left, opened his cupboard door and brought out a small parcel.

"Here Napoleon. For you."

Napoleon was touched.

"Thank you, my friend. Can I open it now?"

"It would be better if you wait until you get home this evening."

Looking at him strangely, Napoleon nodded.

"Very well. Thank you."

That evening, Napoleon burst out laughing as he finally opened his parcel and took out the contents. A full set of six cushion covers in garish, lurid yellow swirls. A small note enclosed said:

"Napoleon, if you still do not like the pattern, these covers are reversible."

Napoleon turned one of them inside out and smiled. It was plain black, and would fit in perfectly with his own décor.

"Thanks Illya." He said softly. "You're a star!"


	10. Chapter 10 The Rose

April Dancer looked up in surprise as her office door opened with a knock and a click. A head poked round. It was twenty-two-year old Harry Lennox, newest recruit to section three.

"Harry! Come in. Is everything all right?"

Harry inserted his body into the room. He carried a long, thin parcel in the crook of one arm, and a letter in the other.

"Miss…er…April, is Mark Slate here?"

April blinked, as a single glance round the room had doubtless confirmed that Mark was not here right now. She refrained from pointing out the obvious, as Harry was clearly nervous being in the presence of a section two agent, even a female.

"He's out on a run right now. Can I take a message?"

"Er…well…"

"He'll be about twenty minutes. I'm his partner, Harry, you can rest assured, if that is a delivery for Mister Slate, I will make sure he gets it the instant he returns."

Harry nodded nervously.

"Well, I have to…er…okay, thanks Miss…er…April…can you sign?"

April dutifully signed the boy's receipt and took the parcel and the envelope, and placed them carefully on Mark's desk. She was just finishing her report when her partner arrived back from his courier run. She smiled at him.

"Hey, you. Go well?"

Mark nodded.

"Like clockwork…" he broke off as he saw the parcel on his desk. "Hey, what's this?"

"There's a letter for you two, beneath the parcel." April told him. Mark picked up the box, full of curiosity and opened it.

Watching him, April saw all the colour leach from his face, leaving him as white as a sheet. Alarmed, she put down her folder and stood up.

"Mark, what is it?"

Wordlessly he showed her the contents of the box. It was a single, perfectly formed, long stemmed Dark **Crimson** Rose.

April took it. It was beautiful, but Mark was now fumbling slightly as he opened his letter. Just a few words evidently, for he read them in a few seconds. He crumpled the paper and pocketed it, picked up the rose and wandered out of the room almost blindly. Greatly alarmed, April followed him.

She watched as Napoleon Solo spoke to him in the corridor, asking about the courier run he had just completed, but Mark passed him by without reacting. Napoleon looked puzzled and a little concerned. April shrugged.

"He's just had some bad news…I guess…I'd better follow him Napoleon. I'll get him to call you, okay?"

Napoleon nodded, and April could feel his concerned gaze following her down the corridor.

Mark was out on the street outside Del Floria's before April caught him up. He glanced at her briefly, but said nothing. He kept on walking down the block, hailed a cab, and waited politely for April to get in before scrambling in himself.

"Montauk Point!" Mark said in a tight voice. April glanced at him. Montauk point was hardly a five-minute jaunt. Something was definitely wrong. Without consulting her partner, April took out her communicator.

"Channel D. Mister Solo?"

"Solo here."

"Dancer, sir. Umm..sir Something important has come up that Mark and I have to deal with…can we give you our reports tomorrow? We'll be gone for the rest of the day."

"Is it something I can know?"

"I don't know sir. We'll speak to you tomorrow."

"Very well. Be careful."

April disconnected and sat back, glancing in concern at her partner. Mark seemed to welcome her presence, but was disinclined to speak right now. Something serious must have happened. She sat quietly beside him, and refrained from asking him anything. He knew she was here for him. He would talk to her when he was ready, she knew. All she needed to do was be there.

When they arrived at the point, Mark paid the fare and April followed him as he walked down the path and on to the beach. He still carried his crimson rose in his left hand. He was weeping. His face was impassive, on the surface at least, but tears streamed down his face. He stood, staring out to sea for several minutes, and then he stepped forward, into the surf, shoes and all and gently threw his rose into the ebbing current. For thirty minutes they stood side by side, watching as the rose was carried out to sea, bobbing on the waves until finally it was out of sight.

Suddenly, Mark sat down and put his chin in his hands, his elbows on his knees. April sat beside him and put her arm around him. He leaned in to her, and started talking, so softly he might have been talking to himself.

"It was during the Blitz, I don't know how mum kept going. Always cheerful and optimistic…in front of us kids anyway…we spend half a day and a night in the shelter once, and it was freezing cold down there. The noises of the air raid was terrifying. When we came out the next morning, half our house was gone, along with half the street. Old Mister Cooper's house got flattened, Miss Terry…" he blinked and shook his head.

"Anyway dad had been at work, working later than usual, and…the blokes never made it to the shelters in time. Dad was killed along with thirty others when the whole building came down on top of them. When we got his body out of the **rubble** , we buried him properly in our back garden, nice and deep. Mum said something about he would always be near us then…"

Mark shook his head, wiping futilely at his falling tears. April listened silently, shocked, and uncertain quite what to say. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. He gave her a wan smile and an acknowledging squeeze.

"The following spring, mum noticed that something was starting to grow over the place where dad's grave was…not anything we had planted. Not knowingly anyway. But by late June we had a beautiful display of dark crimson roses."

"Like the one that you received?"

Mark nodded.

"That particular rose symbolizes mourning, but also rebirth. We always felt it fitting…"

His resolve crumbled briefly, and he dropped his face into his hands, and for a moment or two, his shoulders shook. April stroked his hair until he was able to look up. Finally, he did. He looked at his partner.

"My mum's gone, April. She's gone, and I'll never see her again. Ever since the war, The Slate family have used that rose to signify a death in the family. She'll be laid next to dad underneath the rose bush in the garden."

April hugged her partner close.

"I'm so sorry Mark. When is the funeral? Can I come with you?"

He turned damp eyes to her.

"Thank you April…"

They stood and watched the rolling ocean.


	11. Chapter 11 MEMORIES

Short Affair Challenge from Section 7 on Live Journal. The prompts were: UNKEMPT / GREEN.

MEMORIES

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin spent their rare free afternoon in Kyiv at the Trukhanov Ostrov, a beautiful island paradise connected to the city of Kyiv by the Trukhanov Bridge, enjoying the beautiful **green** scenery, trees, grass and bushes, simply strolling and looking, and breathing in the air.

Napoleon was struck by the beauty of this place, but when he turned to his friend to comment on it, he saw Illya wearing that tight, closed up expression he had learned to recognize. He stopped beside a river and suggested they sit on a log for a bit. Illya stopped and sat down without comment, but his expression did not change.

"Illya?"

"Hmmm?"

Napoleon resisted the impulse to smile at the look of childish innocence that Illya had perfected.

"Memories, my friend? It can't have been easy, being back in Kyiv this week. Especially after what happened last time."

Illya shrugged and looked away.

"I manage."

Napoleon shook his head, worriedly.

"I know my friend, you do better than I think I could in your shoes, but you were fine earlier. What has changed, my friend?"

Illya heaved a sigh that sounded very slightly shaky. He got to his feet.

"Come with me, Napoleon."

Illya led his friend back towards the bridge, and looked around. Then he pointed.

"Over there, Napoleon."

A little way away, sitting on the grassy verge a thin little boy was playing with a short piece of string and some pebbles. When the boy heard the two men approaching, he looked up and grinned at them. His face, hands and knees were grubby, his shorts looked two sized too big and his left shoe had a large hole in the toe where an equally grubby looking toe peeped out. The child's tow coloured hair looked **unkempt** , and his clothes were all clearly worn out hand-me-downs from someone several years older than himself.

Napoleon felt sorry for the boy, and his gaze lingered before he looked back at Illya. Illya was still sadly watching the child playing with his pebbles and string.

"That is what is wrong, Napoleon."

"Wrong? The poor kid's only playing. He looks like he could use a good meal, though."

"Exactly. Napoleon that child is begging. He is being used by his parents, or his guardian to beg for money or scraps of food…from the wealthier people who come here."

"Begging? Illya, he's just playing. Am I missing something?"

Illya smiled wanly.

"Napoleon, I have been there, where that child is now, I have been there myself. He doesn't need to sit cross-legged with a tin-cup looking pathetic. He earns your compassion simply from being a skinny, hungry-looking child. He's the type they always use. Except, he isn't hungry. Watch the boy, Napoleon and see if he acts like someone who is hungry."

Napoleon watched the boy as people passed him by. Nearby were smallholder stalls, selling hot and cold foods, fruits and vegetables, but the boy was sitting with his back to them all. Just playing his game. Napoleon watched a family of four passing by, eating something hot and delicious smelling, but although the boy watched them passing by with a look of curiosity and interest, there was no look of hunger, no desire or silent beseeching as he knew there would certainly be if the child was begging for food to simply survive. A careless passerby threw a half-eaten apple over his shoulder. Napoleon watched as it bounced once on the grass and then rolled down and come to rest close to the boy. The child glanced around, smiled and seized the apple and threw it towards the water, making it skim and bounce along the surface. When it finally went under with a plop, the boy giggled and returned to his pebbles.

Napoleon turned back to his friend and found Illya had turned away and was looking out over the expanse of the bridge. He came up beside him.

"You said you have been there, Illya. It _was_ survival for you, wasn't it?"

Illya nodded.

"My parents had died, Uncle Dimitri had been taken away and locked up for something or other, refusing to fight or something, my sisters had all been killed, Mikhail and I were on our own. The soldiers tried to take us away, but we hid from them. They would have put us in an orphanage, but we still had our own home and Uncle Dimitri. We survived alone on the streets for almost a year until Uncle Dimitri was released from prison. When he came home, he found us waiting for him."

"How old were you, Illya?"

"Nine or ten…Napoleon, begging for help when you are truly starving and destitute is sometimes the only way to survive. Sending out a child to elicit sympathy, to beg for you for any other reason is obscene and disgusting and it should be outlawed. That little boy should be in school, getting an education."

Napoleon nodded sadly.

"You are right, my friend, and one day I am sure that it will be. Until that day you are going to have to keep looking the other way. We could take this child off the street, but they would send out another and then another."

Illya nodded.

"You are right, only it breaks my heart to see…"

Napoleon pointed once again to the boy.

"Illya, you look at him and you see yourself sitting there, starving and destitute. But you pointed out yourself that he is not starving, nor is he destitute. He actually looks happy. He is having fun. Try not to torture yourself over what _should be_ , my friend. Just look at what _is_ , and keep doing the job we are doing. Who knows we may one day be able to help bring about the change in the law? In the mean-time…"

"In the mean-time I am going to buy him an ice-cream!"

Illya exclaimed, walking back towards the boy. Napoleon followed, smiling.


	12. Chapter 12 On Reflection

This short story is part of my **KATIYA** series. Katiya Kuryakin was first introduced at the age of six in my story The Lake of Tears Affair, and brought back again at the end of The Code Red Affair.

On Reflection

"I was just six years old when I first met Papa. He wasn't my Papa then, of course, he was my Uncle Illya. My real Papa was called Mikhail, and he was Uncle Illya's elder brother. My Uncle Illya found out about me, and that my parents were both dead and he travelled the length and breadth of Russia and Ukraine looking for me. Even after he found me, it seems events overtook us and it was a year before we were able to be together…although you know, we were never really able to be together even then. Rules are supposed to exist for our benefit and protection, but sometimes they are hard to understand.

I guess I understand it now, why I had to live with Winston and Cecily Solo in New Jersey rather with Papa in New York, but at the time I was just seven years old and had just lost my dedushka…sorry, I mean my grandfather. I accepted it because it was what papa wanted, and the Solos were always wonderful to me. Papa was always even more wonderful, always.

I remember my original papa. Whenever I saw him he was always tired and cross, often half drunk, and he used to make mama cry. He scared me sometimes. My second papa, Papa Illya is what I called him at first…he tells me he had never been a papa before he found me. The other day he apologized to me for all of the mistakes he made whilst I was growing up, but you know something? I can't think of a single one.

Papa and Uncle Leo were away a lot for the first few years, saving the world over and over again; but always they came to me first before going home. Papa always came to New Jersey and slept in the guest bedroom…the room we always saved especially for my papa…the first night after arriving back from a mission. Even though he usually had to go to report to Mister Waverly first of all, he always came to me before he went home and spent at least one night at the Solos. I always knew I was special to him, even when I didn't see him for a while. When he was unable to see me, he would telephone whenever he could.

I remember quite early on, one occasion I was sick at school, and there was no one at home to care for me at the time, so one of the nurses from medical at UNCLE collected me and looked after me until papa arrived back from his meeting. I was in bed, trying to go to sleep when I heard some of the female staff whispering…more loudly than they realized. They were talking about papa!

I heard one of them say;

"Poor child. Feeling ill, no one at home to care for her, and only that chilly ice cube of a father! What her life must be like with Illya I can't imagine!"

I laugh at it now, because I remember being so cross and at the time I didn't know enough English to be able to tell them what I thought! How little they all knew of him. That chilly ice cube as they called him was not like that with me. He was good fun and generous and funny. I was never bored when I was with papa, even when he was listening to his music, because he would be teaching me how to play it on his guitar, or his balalaika.

Papa, thank you for being my papa. You taught me to appreciate music, and then how to play it…I still can't play the balalaika as well as you, but I am still trying!

Thank you papa for being there all the times I was sick, for giving me your love and your time. You gave me a life I could never have dreamed of. Even when dedushka and I had to hide when I was six, I know…I knew even then how much that decision hurt you. Believe me, I knew even then it was because you loved me so much, and it made me love you all the more.

Even the bad times we had…I know there were a few of them, mostly because of your enemies; but you were always there for me. You found me and rescued me after THRUSH kidnapped me; you found the antidote and saved my life that day I was hit by a poisonous dart whilst on holiday…what a farce that holiday was! Through it all papa, you were always there for me. My rock, my savior, my papa.

When you first gave me your news, I was upset, I know. Please forgive me for that. I was scared at first, the knowledge that I was going to lose you. Even then you did not over react as many fathers would have done. Instead you hugged me and thanked me for loving you so much. That was when I realized that I wouldn't lose you at all. I haven't lost you. Instead I have gained something infinitely better. I have gained a new mother. Cara must be a very special person, papa for you to choose her, so I promise that after your honeymoon I will do my best to get to know her really well. Papa, and Cara, congratulations on your wedding day. I really hope you will both be very happy. Er…by the way Cara, it _is_ all right if I call you mama, isn't it?"


	13. Chapter 13 Friendship

N  
apoleon Solo entered the office he shared with his partner, and paused just inside the door. Illya had hurriedly buried his head beneath the desk and seemed to be shuffling with something in the depth of his desk drawer. Presently he emerged, his face carefully blank, took up a fresh sheet of paper and inserted it into his typewriter.

"You ok?" Solo asked, in as off-handed a voice as he could muster.

"Of course. Do you have a date tonight Napoleon?"

Napoleon shook his head.

"Not tonight. Why? You have any suggestions?"

"If you have a couple of hours free, would you like to come up to mine for a drink? I'll order in a pizza or something…"

Napoleon furrowed his brow.

"Thanks Illya, that'll be good. Are you sure you're all right?"

Illya gave a lop-sided smile and nodded.

"I will admit you caught me off-guard a moment ago. It was a blast from the past, that is all. I'll tell you about it later."

Napoleon nodded and, his brow still furrowed, sat down to start on his increasingly tall pile of paperwork.

It was almost eight o'clock before he arrived at Illya's. Most of that time had been spent ploughing his way steadily through paperwork, even though Illya had graciously taken a third of the pile himself, at six o'clock, he had put his typewriter away, said good evening and left work. Napoleon, having no alternative, worked on. Now, he was tired, sweaty, thirsty, famished and not a little discouraged. What he really wanted to do was go home, lock his doors, have a long soak in a hot bath and go to bed. He had promised his partner he would come however, and Napoleon was a man of his word.

Illya greeted him with his customary shy smile, but the smile faded slightly as he studied the lines on his friend's face.

"A long, boring and frustrating day?"

"That was not helped by three of my people turning in their reports two minutes before I was about to leave, forcing me to stay for a further hour to debrief them and read through and sign off their reports for the old man. Honestly Illya, it's a wonder we ever have time to get out into the field ourselves."

"That's why I am in no hurry to take on your job." Illya replied, placing a large glass of whisky in his hand. "Here, you look like you could use this. Sit down and relax."

Napoleon sat on Illya's sofa, with an audible sigh. Illya poured himself a glass of vodka and sat beside him.

"The food will be delivered in half an hour."

"Pizza?"

"Actually, no. Steakhouse specials."

Napoleon nodded, his mouth watering at the thought. How did Illya always know, even before he realized himself what he wanted? He took a long sip of his drink and sat regarding the glass for a minute before he turned his head.

"I had the impression that there was a particular reason you asked me here this evening?"

Illya nodded, and reached over the back of the sofa, almost spilling his drink in the process. He brought out a small photograph album. Most of the pockets were empty. There were a couple he had seen before, notably the photo Illya had taken of his late brother Mikhail the last time they had been together. Napoleon couldn't help pausing once again, marveling at how much the young Mikhail looked like his partner. He turned the page. This was a rather unusual picture of a large group of men, mostly older men, but of mixed ages grouped around two small tables where a rather sizeable chess tournament seemed to be going on. The rest of the album was empty. Napoleon glanced up.

"This is what you were looking at this morning isn't it? Memories perhaps?"

"In a sense." Illya took the photo from its protective plastic cover and looked closely at it.

"I remember some of these men…the younger men in this picture were old men when I knew them. This picture belonged to my Uncle Dimitry."

Napoleon's eyes widened.

"The sweet old man we visited in Kyiv? Living in your old house?"

Illya nodded.

"I received a few things via special courier from section one Moscow, Wilhelm Tarasov. Uncle Dimitry passed away three days ago. He was very old and he died peacefully in his sleep."

Illya was clearly trying to keep the conversation upbeat, but all the same his eyes were very sad.

"Oh Illya, I'm so sorry. I know he meant a lot to you, too."

Illya nodded and smiled slightly.

"Yes. It hasn't really sunk in yet that I have lost the old man. But anyway, I didn't ask you here for sympathy or anything. Mister Tarasov, knowing how close we were, took a close personal interest in making sure that Dimitry's will, and his belongings were sent to me."

Illya handed the photo back to his friend.

"Uncle Dimitry is the young man in front with his back to the camera. He would have been about…forty there, forty-two maybe? Many of those men came from our local area, or neighbourhoods close by."

"It's good you have this picture as a momento." Napoleon said, studying it. Illya nodded.

"He wrote me a letter when he knew he was getting sick and might die. Most of it is private, but there is one part of it I want to read to you." Illya put his glasses on and started to read;

"…one of the things I have learned my dear boy is the value of true friendship. There is nothing in this world like it, and nothing can ever replace it. So few people are fortunate enough to experience the value of a true friend, someone who will even give up his life for yours in a heartbeat. You have found that Illyusha, in that sterling young man you brought to my door that day. You know true friendship. Do not let it go without a fight…"

Eyes slightly damp, Illya folded the letter carefully and put it away. Napoleon was looking stunned and humbled. He looked down at his hands and mumbled;

"Wow, what a wonderful testimony, and from a wonderful old man."

Illya nodded.

"Yes, he was always the very wisest man I ever knew. He had few belongings, but what he had Mister Tarasov has sent to me. A few paintings he owned, some he painted himself. Nothing very valuable, but things that mean a lot to me. Things that bring back good times we spent together…"

Napoleon smiled and nodded.

"Real treasures never to let go. Those are always the most valuable."

Illya walked to his cupboard, and brought out a wooden box, long and quite heavy.

"Napoleon, this was part of the bequest. I really want you to have this. I think he too would approve."

Napoleon stared in surprise.

"You want to pass on to me…I couldn't Illya…"

Illya smiled.

"You can. Open it up."

Slowly and gently, Napoleon lifted the lid and stared in stunned silence at the contents of the box. A complete set of green chessmen, larger than customary, heavy to hold in exquisite complex detail. Napoleon held up the figure of the king and marveled at the incredible fine detail.

"Illya, is this what I think it is?"

The Russian nodded.

"These chessmen are original Chinese jade, imported to Russia from China many years ago. They were the only thing my great grandfather owned that was not looted by the Nazis. That was because Uncle Dimitry was _very_ good at hiding things. There never was an original board. This board was made from Russian pine about one hundred and fifty years ago."

Napoleon was stunned.

"Illya, you can't give this to me! It must be worth a fortune! It's your family heritage."

Illya shook his head.

"Napoleon, this chess set means the world to me. And it will mean even more to me to be able to give it as a gift to my best friend."

Seeing that Napoleon was still resistant at the generosity of the gift, he tried to explain, willing the man to understand.

"Napoleon, you are a wealthy man, and there is little I can give you that you do not already have. To me, a gift that means the most is one that comes from the heart and not the pocket. A flower, a handwritten note, a walk in the park. This chess set is valuable in a monetary way, but it has a great deal of sentimental significance to me because of the memories it engenders. This is why I really would like to give it to you my friend, as a gift from the heart. I want you to always be reminded how much I value your friendship."

Napoleon continued staring at Illya for several seconds, still trying to digest his words.

"You really mean it, don't you?"

Illya smiled.

"You have given me your friendship, you have also shared your family with me, and they have accepted me with open arms. I have not had that kind of acceptance for a very…very long time. I would be very happy if you will accept it. A gift of friendship."

Napoleon swiped hurriedly at a tear that looked like escaping from his eye, and swept Illya into a slightly diffident hug.

"Thank you my friend, I don't know what to say…it's beautiful and I will treasure it more than you know."

Illya's smile brightened the room for a minute, then he cleared his throat and turned as the doorbell rang.

"Hmm. That will be our steaks. I hope you are hungry?"

"Famished."

As the two men sat down to enjoy their meal, Illya grinned slightly.

"So my friend, now what shall we talk about?"

Napoleon picked up the old photo that was still sat on the arm of the sofa beside him.

"Tell me some more about your Uncle Dimitry?"


	14. Chapter 14 Sitting Vigil

adapt / black

Illya sat hunched in his chair in medical, watching the steady rise and fall of his partner's chest. He was hooked up to goodness knew how many machines. When the doctors had tried to remove the ventilator, Napoleon had almost died. Now it seemed he was doing slightly better than before, but he was still unable to breathe without the ventilator.

It had been a little while since he had sat here in vigil for Napoleon. It was generally the other way around; Napoleon sitting here for Illya. This time though it seemed like nothing had gone right for Napoleon. It was supposed to have been a simple pick-up. Drive to a motel a few miles outside of town, pick up a package from reception marked `for the attention of Uncle Aloysius', then return to HQ. Simple. This time though it had been a trap.

Unlike THRUSH, there had been no capture or torturing for information. Simply someone lying in wait, equipped with a rifle. They had not bothered to shoot Napoleon himself. Whoever it was had stationed him or herself along the road, away from the city, waited until Napoleon was driving past in his car, and then shot out two of the tires. The car had veered out of control and off the road, down the embankment and ended up crumpled badly against a tree. Now Illya was sitting beside his friend, waiting for the first sign that Napoleon was coming back.

His face was white, looking whiter still against his **black** hair. His breathing, even with the help of the machines was shallow and laboured, and his heartbeat, though regular, was feeble. Illya hated to see his friend like that.

He remembered when he had first arrived in New York. He had spent some time in England, at Cambridge, and then his initial time with UNCLE had been with the London office before he had transferred back to Moscow after graduating from Survival school. Even so, reality of life in New York had come as an even greater shock than he had expected. It seemed that anything you wanted was there for the having. All you seemed to need was the money. The availability of food was greater here than he even remembered in England. Wherever he went in New York, he found shops, stalls and carts selling such a wide range of eatables that he had felt almost overwhelmed by it at first.

He remembered the first night in his flat he had been unable to sleep, and he had stood almost all night long, looking out of the window at the city that never seemed to tire itself, or stop for breath. Always, even in the wee hours of the morning there was traffic and bustle and twinkling lights. He had at first doubted that he would ever get used to it all. Such a strange and different way of life than that he had always been accustomed to.

He looked down at he still form lying in the bed. It had been Napoleon who had held out his hand to him, right from day one. Napoleon had eased him into the life of this Mega-City. Napoleon who had helped him to **adapt** to life in the western world.

It had been Napoleon too who had open-handedly welcomed him when many of his colleagues had remained aloof, uncertain at first about welcoming a Russian into their midst. Napoleon had, as CEA demanded high standards from his agents, but he made it almost his personal mission to go above and beyond the call to make sure that he followed his own rules himself. That Illya was so quickly accepted by all the staff here in the New York office, Illya was aware, was largely due to the example set by Napoleon Solo.

Illya wondered as he sat there, had he ever bothered to thank Napoleon for the way he had welcomed him and helped him those difficult first few weeks? No, he never had.

"Come on now my friend. It's time you stopped being lazy. You have a huge dinner to eat as soon as you are well enough. Carte blanche, whatever you like, wherever you like, to say thank you. Come on Napoleon, wake up."

The hand he was holding twitched, and Illya looked up at the tired brown eyes of his friend. Napoleon was unable to speak, but he had his eyebrows raised slightly, as though asking a question. Illya smiled, trying vainly to hide his relief at seeing those warm brown eyes again.

"Did you hear what I just promised you?"

Feebly, Napoleon nodded. Illya could read easily what was in his friend's mind; what he would say if he could; `I'll hold you to that'. Illya squeezed his friend's hand.

"Well, I mean it my friend. But the deal is you have to get well first."

This time, Napoleon pulled the mask away from his mouth and managed to whisper;

"Why?"

"For always being there for me. For being my friend. You're tired. Go to sleep my friend. I'll still be here when you wake up."

Napoleon smiled weakly, and as he drifted back into a soothing, healing sleep, managed to whisper;

"Always."


	15. Chapter 15 FEAR AND COURAGE

This was a story I posted originally as a single story under a slightly different title. The title and the ending have been tweaked, but the story is essentially the same.

Fear and Courage

Entry from personal diary of

Illya Kuryakin

11/03/1965

The day started out so well, but then the very worst days in history often do. I don't want to write this down. I'm not too good at keeping a diary, I'm always worried about someone finding and reading it, but there are some things that need to be exorcised in order to be able to put them completely behind me…and I am afraid this is one of them.

Napoleon and I had been working on a case in southern California, and as we had rounded up all the troublemakers, we had been contacted by Mr. Waverly directing us to stop over in Los Angeles for an hour to pick up a package to deliver back to HQ. Fine, what's the problem with that? Messenger servicing is supposedly one of the simpler tasks we section two agents are involved in; even though it is often more hazardous than one would normally believe. This seemed to be no problem. The only problem, we had been directed to collect this package from a lost luggage office at one of the city railway stations.

Ok, ours not to question why, after all. We get there and find the main office is closed, and we are sent down several levels to what seemed to be the depths of the earth in order to find the duty manager and get him to retrieve our package for us from the closed offices. Something seemed fishy about this from the start, but when Napoleon called Mr. Waverly to check the details of the pickup, they were confirmed. We decided on caution, so we kept our wits about us and our eyes open wide for troublemakers. Nothing obvious. I could see though that Napoleon was as uncomfortable about all this as I was. There were so many people coming and going all over the staircases, and on the lower levels, many of the doors to the stairwells were locked fast to keep out the public, so we inevitably found ourselves on the elevator.

Big mistake.

The first thing we knew was a massive boom from somewhere above us, and then the feeling that the elevator was in freefall. We crouched on the floor, knowing that there was nothing we could do to avoid a very sticky end, when the emergency braking system finally started working and stopped our car just about a foot off the ground. Before we had the chance to remove the top hatch and get ourselves out of there, what sounded like a ton of rubble falling down the elevator shaft landed on top of us. We felt the elevator shaking, and as the rocks and masonry kept falling, it finally lost its grip and fell the last foot to the ground, almost jarring our teeth out of our heads.

We tried all the normal things, pressing the help button and the emergency telephone, but clearly the power was off, or disconnected or something. Napoleon was back on his communicator to Mr. Waverly. He was a lot more polite that I would have been under the circumstances, but it seemed that Waverly was going to set our rescue in motion right away, so perhaps we wouldn't be stuck there for very long after all.

Yeah, right.

This is where this diary gets tricky. I have never found it easy to be open, and this problem in particular has a lot of very bad, even nightmarish memories for me which I have no desire to revisit. Let's just say that I have no problem with elevators, or cupboards or small rooms per se, because they have a distinct purpose, for which they are very useful. One is not accustomed to spending hours at a time in a small confined space like that…unless you are Napoleon Solo stealing a kiss from some female of course, but that is beside the point. However, I have a problem with confined spaces. A short time, when I know I can get out, not a problem. Stuck in a lift with no immediate prospect of escape? This is the stuff many of my worst nightmares are made of.

However, I managed to smile and converse and be my normal self. I think I even fooled my partner for a while, but I must say Napoleon knows me better than I had given him credit for. After half an hour had gone past, he started to look at me with concern in his eyes.

"Illya, are you okay?"

I shrugged, determined not to let my stupid irrational fears get the mastery over me.

"I'm fine Napoleon."

"You're sweating."

"I'm hot."

"You're hot? How can you be hot? It's cold in here."

"Well I come from a cold country remember. For me this is the middle of summer."

Napoleon clearly didn't believe me, but he knows when to stop probing anyway, I'll give him that. Just standing there was making me feel a lot worse, so I started to pace round and round the car. Napoleon didn't say any more, but he continued to watch me uneasily. I tried to ignore him and his glances. I was having enough trouble controlling myself. All I wanted to do was scream for help at the top of my lungs, and panic. I did neither, but it was definitely getting harder. I felt a hand on my arm. Napoleon was looking really worried about me. Bless, the man, I guess I would have reacted the same way if our positions were reversed.

"Why don't you sit and try to relax for a bit Illya?"

I couldn't just sit still, any more than fly to the moon. I kept pacing. I think though, my pacing must have been getting slightly quicker and more frantic, because Napoleon grabbed both of my arms and brought me to a sudden halt.

"Illya, we'll be out of here in a little while. Meantime you're going to wear yourself out. Sit and try to think of something else."

Reluctantly I looked up and saw only concern in those big brown eyes.

"I'm fine, really."

I couldn't have sounded very convincing. I think I said it really just to try and convince myself, but I wasn't fooling anyone. Least of all my partner.

"You suffer from claustrophobia, right? You have a big problem feeling trapped and unable to escape?"

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me down to the floor. I finally sat on the floor with my arms wrapped around my knees. Napoleon sat down beside me, still watching me carefully.

"We'll be out of here before too long. Mr. Waverly won't want his two best agents out of commission any longer than necessary."

I glanced up at the room, and closed my eyes tightly, certain I had seen the walls closing in around me, the ceiling coming down, losing height. I tried to focus my mind, concentrate on my breathing. I could feel my hands starting to shake.

"long have we been stuck in here Napoleon?" I didn't like the way my voice trembled.

"Forty minutes."

I couldn't help letting out a shaky sigh. I felt Napoleon's grip on my hand for a moment, and I saw him reach for his communicator. Suddenly, I grabbed it from him, shaking my head, feeling even more agitated. He looked really worried now.

` "Illya, what is it pal?"

"Don't tell them. Don't. You can't!"

"But Illya, if they know you are…"

I shook my head. No way. It was bad enough that I was subject to these stupid fears, but to have everyone find out about it? I had no real idea what they would think of me if they all found out, but I knew what I would think of myself.

"Nobody can know Napoleon. I can handle it. I have to handle it. I have to beat it. Promise me you won't call. They know we're here, they'll get us out; but you can't tell anyone."

"But Illya, claustrophobia is nothing to be ashamed of. Have you always suffered from it?"

"Not always… for about…. Well, since I was in the Soviet Navy."

"So for the whole time I have known you, you have suffered from this and I have never known? Never even guessed? All the times we were captured and locked up in small cells by THRUSH, you have had this problem weighing on you and you've never let on?"

I shrugged.

"As I said, I can deal with it."

I glanced around the room again and closed my eyes with a shudder.

"At least, usually I can deal with it!"

"You are a truly courageous man, my friend."

"In the face of fears that I know are completely in my mind?"

"The dangers might be in your mind Illya, but that doesn't make the fears any less real. What do you usually do to cope?"

"Focus my mind on more important things. If I am being tortured, that always provides a sufficient source of distraction for me. If we are simply locked up, knowing that there is a way to escape if I look hard enough is often the best antidote to unnecessary fears."

"And right now?"

I forced myself to open my eyes, and looked round, feeling more panicky than I had felt for a long time. The walls of the elevator car were so close I felt I could reach out and touch them, and looming over me. I thought I saw the ceiling actually moving down fast enough to flatten me. I felt my body start to go into panic mode, my whole body starting to shake, my heart beating faster, I was starting to hyperventilate. Napoleon grabbed my hand and moved round so that he was directly in my field of vision. He took hold of both my hands and tried to stop them shaking.

"I am here Illya. Breathe slowly now. Look at me. Focus on me, and just breathe slowly."

I stared into his eyes and focused on slowing down my breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out. I felt my body start to cautiously ease up a little. My hands were still shaking and my mouth felt dry. I risked a glance up. The walls and roof of the elevator were all where I knew they should be. Where they had been all along. I heaved a big sigh of relief, and leaned back against the wall, laying my legs out flat on the floor. My heart was still pounding and my head ached, but still the elevator walls around me appeared to be staying put for now. Napoleon smiled slightly. He nodded.

"Good job my friend. You and I can get through anything if we stick together."

What happened next is not entirely clear to me, but it seems I must have fallen sleep. When I next opened my eyes, I heard a lot of loud commotion. Napoleon grinned at me and told me that we were being rescued.

"They've been clearing rubble for the last hour." He told me. I frowned.

"They have? How long have I been asleep?"

"You…er…dropped off about ninety minutes ago."

"You mean we've been here for more than two hours?"

"Yup. How are you doing Illya?"

I looked round, but the certain knowledge that rescue was imminent seemed to have softened the impact of our incarceration. As far as my claustrophobia went, I felt as normal as I could ever be under the circumstances.

"I'm doing all right. Napoleon…thank you for…you know."

He smiled at me.

"Hey, I'm your partner. What else are partners for?"

"How come I fell asleep? I wasn't sleepy."

"Hey Illya, you and sleep? You're famous for it. Any time, any place, anywhere."

"Yes, but only if I try to…Napoleon, I passed out didn't I?"

I couldn't believe it. Not just panicking for no good reason, passing out with terror? How could I live with myself now? My partner grabbed my chin and made me look at him. Curse the man, I really hope he doesn't make a habit out of reading my mind!

"Illya, I know what you're thinking…"

"I doubt it."

"You passed out with exhaustion."

"Exhaustion? Please Napoleon."

"Illya, believe me I know fear. It keeps you awake, taut, strung up and pumped full of adrenalin. But you beat it my friend. You defeated your fears like I knew you would. It leaves you feeling drained. That's why you slept. It's the body's way of dealing with the overdose of adrenalin." He gave a crooked smile. "The worst part is still to come."

I glared at him.

"What worst part?"

"You have to tell Mr. Waverly about your claustrophobia."

"No way. No way Napoleon."

"He has a right to know. You don't have to put it in your official report, but if he knows, then he can…"

"Start to make allowances for me? Or even leave me out of missions in case I start to panic? No way Napoleon."

"Listen my friend, you suffered a serious claustrophobic attack back there, and you fought it and you beat it. If he knows you suffer, the most that will happen is that he might expedite our rescues from time to time, but he needs to know that you have the condition and that you have learned how to control it yourself so that it doesn't control you."

I could see his point, but I shook my head.

"I… I can't…I can't talk about… Napoleon I can't."

"Illya, he needs to know. I'll tell him what happened here, that I saw you have an attack and I saw you beat it. No one else needs to know, but Mr. Waverly should be informed."

I'd rather not dwell any more on the day. Suffice it to say that Napoleon and I disagreed, and being that he is the Chief Enforcement Agent, he won. When we were finally released from our metallic tomb, we found that there was no package. The whole thing had been a hoax to lure us into the way of a bomb in the hope of finishing us off.

Napoleon insisted on informing Mr. Waverly about my claustrophobia. I made myself scarce, but before long one of the secretaries found me and informed me that Mr. Waverly wanted to see me in his office right away. Better to bite the bullet, so I went straight up there.

Sure enough I received a stern Waverly lecture against withholding important information, which was followed, surprisingly, by a very warm-hearted speech in praise of my courage in the face of almost insurmountable fear. I left his office with my ears ringing and my mind reeling. I felt the sooner I got this day behind me, the better off I would be. I asked my partner to let me have the rest of the day off so I could get my head back in gear. So here I am back at home.

Quite why I decided to do this, I don't know, but one of the UNCLE head shrinks once claimed that writing it all down can be quite therapeutic. It has at least made me realize that probably my biggest fear is fear itself. I have also been reminded that I can always depend on my partner. He does like to joke around a lot, but he is always there for me when I need him to be… and I did need him today. At least I know I can defeat my fears when I focus, especially if my partner is there to help me. Hopefully there won't be a next time. If there is…we'll be ready for it.

Entry from the personal diary of

Napoleon Solo

11/03/1965

This will have to be brief because I have been on the go all day, I had a lot of reports to check through and sign off before I left HQ and I have to get changed in two minutes for a date. I am taking the luscious Mandy out to dinner tonight, and she is one doll you don't want to be late for.

However, I do want to note down that thanks to THRUSH, yet again Illya and I ran into problems during a seemingly simple collection detail. The whole thing was a fake. A set up. We got stuck in a lift after a bomb went off. I don't want to go too much into the details of that. I've been through it all once for my report, and then again verbally for Mr. Waverly. Just to say I learned something about my partner that astounded me through to the core. Something he has always kept hidden from me. I never could have guessed.

The poor guy suffers from claustrophobia! The number of times we have been in situations that would have set it off and he has never let on, or even let it show. When he said he can deal with it, believe me, he's right. He can.

I have never seen such bravery, personally. Even facing up to enemies is easy compared to facing something like this. It was heart-breaking to see Illya in that lift today. My stout-hearted best friend, sweating and shaking, his eyes rolling, pacing frantically round and round. At one point I could see he was almost at breaking point, and yet he managed to swallow his fear, take deep breaths and I could almost see the tension leaving his body. Once the panic attack was over, he was so exhausted, he fell asleep, sitting where he was, against the wall of the elevator. I did lay him down on the floor, and started pacing myself then out of boredom.

I am more convinced than ever now of the courage of my Russian partner. Courage and bravery after all is not an absence of fear, but rather the mastery over fear. I think on second thoughts I will ask Mandy for a rain check on tonight. I really want to take him out and buy him a drink. The bravest man I know. My partner, Illya Kuryakin.


	16. Dreams and Images

Napoleon awoke with a jump as Illya gave a blood-curdling scream. He sat up, his heart pounding.

"Illya, are you all right? What was it, another dream?"

Illya was sitting sideways on his bed, rubbing his face with both hands.

"It was nothing. Go back to sleep Napoleon."

Napoleon shook his head.

"From the way my heart is pounding, it'll be an hour before I can get to relax again...and I was in the middle of such a delicious dream too..."

" _Your_ heart is pounding?" Illya gave a short humourless laugh. "Funny thing is Napoleon, I...I don't know where that dream came from..."

Napoleon got up and poured out the last of last night's brandy for the two of them.

"Here, you look like you could use this and I know I could. You have to tell me about this dream of yours, Illya, now I'm wide awake."

"I am curled up at home on my sofa with my cat. She's happy and contented and purring away, and I hear a buzzing sound. And the cat leaps from my lap onto the coffee table. I watch as the buzzing turns out to be a large black fly. The cat watches the fly until it buzzes near her face, and then she opens her mouth, reveals a set of alligator teeth, and flicks her tongue out like a lizard and swallows the fly in one gulp."

"Weird!" Napoleon replied, wrinkling his nose. "So your cat is a three-way cross between a cat, an alligator and a lizard, eh? I always suspected something of the kind the way she always seems to sink those teeth of hers into my fingers whenever we meet."

Illya rolled his eyes,

"Idiot! She's an ordinary cat, Napoleon. The dream isn't real. How could it be?"

He crossed the room and stood staring out of the window. Napoleon drained his glass and then joined him.

"We have nightmares fairly often." He commented, "Most section 2's do. It's a natural result of the things we face every day as part of our job. But I must say I don't recall meeting any kind of weird cat creature like the one in your dream. If it had been a dog now, I could have understood it, considering how you dislike dogs."

Illya shook his head and closed the curtain, sitting down once again on the end of his bed.

"That's the point Napoleon. I don't dislike dogs really...I can see all their good points from a purely academic point of view...I am simply afraid of them. The larger ones at least. I am not however and have never been afraid of cats! So why a dream like _that?_ "

"Watching any late night horror films lately?"

"I am not into that kind of thing Napoleon and you know it. Neither that or this All Hallows celebration you all go in for."

Napoleon chuckled.

"You mean Hallowe'en? I know you don't go in for all of that, but maybe some of the hype or images have come back to you in your dreams"

"Nightmares about a deadly pussycat? If you decide to dress up as a white pussycat for this hallows celebration of yours, Napoleon, I might take that idea of yours seriously."

" _Hallowe'en_ , and no, that wasn't at the top of my list of costume ideas. Have you ever been attacked by a cat?"

"Not to my knowledge; but then I haven't been specifically attacked by a dog, either."

"Well, maybe you could have a word with one of the psyche doctors when we get back to New York? He might have some ideas of where this nightmare cat of yours could have come from."

"Or maybe I should do what I always do and forget the whole thing and go back to sleep?"

Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"And what if this dream recurs?"

"What if it does? Sorry to tell Napoleon, my bad dreams usually do recur. What _can_ I do except roll over and go back to sleep?"

Illya got back into bed and lay down again. Napoleon shook his head.

"The thought of it recurring again and again doesn't worry you?" He closed his eyes and shuddered visibly. "The last nightmare I had, Illya, scared me witless, and I was shaking for hours."

Illya sat up again.

"Yes, sorry about that my friend. That was your dream about me drowning wasn't it? I have had dreams like that, and they _do_ bother me, because they could one day happen for real. Dreams like this one about the cat are a little disturbing, or annoying would be a better word because they disturb my sleep, but not really frightening like that dream of yours."

"Because it could never come true?"

"Exactly. I would sooner dream about an alligator-cat than about you dying, my friend."

Napoleon smiled and switched off the lamp.

"So would I, my friend. So would I."


	17. The Dance of the Seven Veils

"I'll never forgive you for this April!" Napoleon growled under his breath. April Dancer couldn't stop herself from laughing.

"Keep still Napoleon, or you'll end up with the kohl pencil in your eye!"

"Why the hell couldn't you be doing this, April? Why me? Why not Illya? At least he can dance!"

April had to pause from her task in order to bring her laughing back under control once more.

"I can't do the dance of the seven veils with a sprained ankle!" she replied finally, gesturing at the thick bandage around her left foot; "and Illya's blue eyes are pretty. We need someone dark-eyed and sultry looking for this job. As Mister Waverly said, `you'll do it splendidly!'"

Napoleon groaned out loud once more.

"I'll never live this one down! I'm the CEA around here you know, a job that requires a modicum of dignity. Where's the dignity in this?"

April rolled her eyes.

"Look Napoleon, your face will be covered with black silk, your own hair covered by a beautiful long flowing wig held on by special glue so that it will stay put. Your eyes will be heavily made up, and in a minute I will apply some false eyelashes and you can practice batting them for tonight."

"Uuuuhhhhhhh!" Napoleon groaned again, his entire face starting to change to a very unbecoming shade of red. "This has to be the worst day of my entire life!"

"Now keep still. I'm going to apply these false eyelashes. Much as you don't want them on my friend, you do want them to be straight. False lashes that are applied crookedly will make you look truly ridiculous!"

Blushing furiously, Napoleon froze as April applied thick mascara to Napoleon's eyelashes, and then carefully applied the fake lashes on top of his own. After a minute or two, she smiled.

"Come on now love, bat your lashes for me!"

Napoleon glared at her. From outside the room, someone pounded on the door again.

"Go away!" he bellowed.

Mister Waverly's voice came back.

"Actually, Mister Solo, I have that information you asked me for."

April laughed again as Napoleon rolled his eyes this time and replied;

"Sorry sir, er…thank you."

The door opened and Alexander Waverly entered the room closely followed by Illya Kuryakin and Mark Slate, all three of them grinning widely. They saw Napoleon sitting still on a stool whilst April applied thick makeup to his face and a gorgeous long, curly black wig over his natural hair, ensuring it was fixed. He was wearing close fitting, flesh coloured tights that left nothing at all to the imagination, and nothing else whatever. Mark Slate Whistled mischievously.

"Walk down the corridor like that you'll get yourself a reputation Guv, and no mistake!" He said with a chuckle. Napoleon gave him a withering look and turned to his boss.

"Sir, no offense, but couldn't you have called me with that information?"

Waverly twinkled at him.

"Yes Mister Solo I could, but this is a spectacle that comes around only once in a lifetime. This is serious though, you stay there only until you or your companions get that information, and then you get out of there. If they penetrate your disguise, they'll likely be rather…annoyed with you. So make sure you put on a good show."

The Old man left, and Napoleon looked round at his three friends.

"All right, enough of the fun. I suppose we have no choice about this. We need that information or else thousands of lives will be at serious risk. Have you finished here April?"

April nodded.

"Just your costume now."

She took out of the package beside her an exquisite outfit looked like it had come straight from a production of Aladdin. Napoleon stared at it.

"I'm going to look like a genie who's her bottle!"

Illya grinned at him.

"It is straight from the Burlesque Club. They are lending us this costume for the evening. It has been altered slightly so that you will be better able to hide your…disadvantage. You must hurry Napoleon, we have only a short time left."

Napoleon, looked around at them all, and with a slightly hunted look on his face, he discarded the remnants of his dignity and with April's help he donned the costume.

"Now for the finishing touch!" she said, and within five minutes, Napoleon was ready. Heavy eye make-up, beautiful long curly hair, crowned by magnificent jewelry that jingled around his forehead, and bangles that jingled on his hands, fingers and ankles. He was draped and covered with the various veils and he gave a playful prance before them, batting his eyelashes and wiggling his hips.

"Let's go play with some birdies!" he said in a sexy voice. "Who's with me?"

Illya, Mark and April laughed and clapped as Napoleon Solo, CEA of UNCLE New York threw off his embarrassment and threw open the door of his office. Followed all the way by whistles and stares, he pranced through the corridors towards the basement car park, holding his head high and batting his new long eyelashes at everyone he encountered.

Watching him go, Illya muttered in an aside to April.

"I hope he doesn't get a standing ovation tonight…I hate to think what that would do to his ego!"


	18. The House In Three Bears' Wood Affair

Locals had dubbed it `Three Bears' Wood'. It was large and sprawling, somehow mysterious, in a fairytale kind of way. At one time, it had been a young and open wood, with walkers, hikers and picnickers enjoying its serene beauty.

That was over a century ago. No one went into the wood any more. It had become so overgrown over the years that even the bridle paths that once wended their way through had long since vanished beneath a dense growth of thistles and brambles. Stout bushes, hawthorn and gorse had sprung up and spread themselves out to discourage even the most determined of wanderers. The wood seemed dark, almost sinister up close, but viewed from the road, as it usually was, the variegated shades of green, mixed with the reds, golds and yellows of early autumn sang out loudly the astonishing beauty of nature allowed to spread its wings unhindered.

Mice, rats and voles scurried about their business, badgers and foxes slunk about in the half-light preying on the most unwary of the scurrying creatures whilst birds overhead sang out their joy in their peaceful haven.

An ear-splitting shriek shattered the peace of the wood, and two children, both pre-teen; at a guess, you would have put them down as ten or eleven years old came tearing through the undergrowth unheeding of the thorns and brambles that tore at their clothes, or of the tiny ground animals that fled at the sound of their pounding feet and laughter.

"You won't catch me in here!"

"Oh yes I will!"

Ground-nesting birds flew away squawking in rage as the kids continued their flight until finally pursuer and pursued slowed and came to a stop beside a babbling overgrown brook, panting noisily.

"I gotcha Kate!"

"Only coz' I ran out of breff! Look at you anyway, panting like a steam engine!"

The two children looked around them, as the darkness and silence of the wood suddenly impressed them.

"Hey, Jack, We never bin' this far before. D'ju know the way back out?"

Jack glanced around and shook his head.

"Can't remember."

"Are we lost? It's a bit dark, innit? Can't even see the sun!"

"S'right Kate, we can foller the stream. It'll come outta the wood somewhere and then we can find the road and get back 'ome."

"That might be miles and miles Jack. Dad'll clobber us if we're late 'ome again!"

Jack shrugged, unconcerned.

"It'll be an adventure, Kate. What adventures do dad and mum 'ave, stuck at 'ome washing dishes and weeding the garden?"

Kate considered this, and finally nodded her agreement. The risk was probably worth taking. If they got home early, they would only be put to work helping in the house or the garden in any case; and this was definitely more fun.

"C'mon then. Glad we got wellies on Jack. We can walk in the stream. Won't get so caught up in the bushes then."

"Good idea. C'mon then."

Plodding through the stream made their going slightly easier, even so the dashing water came perilously close to the tops of their wellies at times. When it seemed like they had been walking for ages, Jack, in the lead suddenly stopped.

"Oi, look, there's something 'ere!"

"What?"

Peering through the underbrush, they spied a clearing and what looked like a building of sorts, overgrown and half tumbling down. They looked at each other in surprise. Who would build in the middle of a thick wood like this? No roads or even paths to get here?

"Let's explore!"

The two children climbed out of the stream and forced their way through the bushes until they stood in a clearing.

It was obvious even to them that the place might once have been handsome and well-tended, but the building, a rambling, old looking place, at least two and in places three floors high, built of brick with wood paneling, doubtless once handsome but now green with moss and mold, with a rapidly thickening covering of vines, including the ever-present ivy.

As the two children wandered around the outside of the building, they found the ground beneath their feet, once concreted, has been broken up with dandelion plants, ferns, the plant mummy called rosebay willowherb, and nettles and thistles almost waist-high in places. They found a staircase leading down, into a cellar or something, and as they peered curiously, they both noticed the door was hanging from just one hinge.

"It's open!"

"Shall we go in?" Jack asked his sister. She pursed her lips.

"There'll be lots of spiders in there."

"So?"

"Well, ok let's look. But I'm gonna run out again if I walk into a cobweb."

"Scaredy-cat!" he taunted her. "I want to explore the house. Someone might have left some treasure behind!"

So, on tiptoe, they crept down the staircase and peeped into the room.

The room was an inch high in smelly, stagnant water, and mud. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and lurking in every corner, Kate could have sworn that she saw things creeping about and lurking, waiting to drop on the unwary. Keeping one hand on her brother's shoulder and her eyes warily upward, she crept on, determined to follow him further.

They were nervous about tackling the stairs, but by going slowly and testing each step before they put their weight on it, they made it upstairs intact, and then gasped.

The first room they saw in front of them was not empty. There were two figures lying on the floor, both strapped tightly in straight-jackets, their feet chained to ringbolts attached to the wall, so that they were partially hanging like a couple of sides of beef. Both figures were blindfolded and gagged. Neither were moving.

The two children stared at each other, aghast.

"Dju think they're dead?" Kate asked her brother in a stage whisper.

"Dunno, but what if they're not? They could die tied up here like that."

"What if they're dead already? That would be scary."

Jack agreed, but he knew they couldn't just run away without finding out. Neither of them wanted to go over to the two figures in case they were dead.

"Let's shout. If they're asleep we might wake them up."

"Good idea." Kate replied, slightly happier. "Hey, mister! Oi, are you awake?"

"Oi you two, are you alright? You ain't dead are ya?" Jack shouted out in unison. One of the two figures started to wriggle and was clearly trying to say something through the gag in his mouth. Kate looked at Jack in relief.

"That one's alive. Let's take that gag off so's we can understand 'im."

They ran across and crouched beside the wriggling figure and removed the gag from the blond man's mouth, and then the blindfold from his eyes. His look of relief was obvious to the two children, even through the gloom.

"I am very, very happy to see you." He said with a slight accent that they could not quite place.

"Are you all right, mister?" Kate asked at last. The blond man smiled at her.

"I am now. Are you strong enough to undo these knots?"

Kate tried, but could make nothing of them. Whilst Jack tried, Kate went to the other figure, who still had not moved.

"Is your friend alive?"

"I hope so. I think he is unconscious. The people who put us here gave him something to make him sleep before they tied us up."

Jack was having no luck with the knots either, then he had a thought.

"Mister, would my old penknife be strong enough d'ju think?"

"Try it, please. We must get out of here. How did you two kids find us?"

Jack sawed at the ties with his penknife, whilst Kate looked slightly uncomfortable.

"We were playing, chasing each other through the wood, but we came further than we knew and got lost. We thought we would follow the stream until it led us out of the wood."

The blond man looked impressed.

"Good thinking. What are your names, by the way?"

"I'm Kate, short for Katarina, and this is my brother Jack, not short for anything."

"I'm called Illya."

"That's a funny name, mister."

"Not where I come from. How are you doing with your penknife, Jack?"

"Nearly done Mister…er Illya. Kate is the other bloke waking up yet?"

"No, but I took his gag off."

"There y'are mister Illya. I done it. D'ju want to borrow it for your friend?"

Illya nodded.

"Yes, but first I need to get out of these chains. There's no key. Kate, are you wearing a hairgrip?"

"Yes, what d'ju want it for?"

Illya smiled and held out his hand.

"Watch."

She removed her hairgrip and handed it to the strange blond man with the accent and watched as he straightened it out and stuck one end of it into the keyhole. After a few moments of poking around, the padlock popped open and Illya removed his chains and massaged his feet, grimacing. He crawled to his friend's side and swiftly removed the chains that held his feet in the air, and removed the straight-jacket. The two children watched as Illya started to chafe the other man's wrists and tap his cheeks.

"Mark, Mark wake up! Mark, we're free now. Come on, wake up!"

After several long moments, the other man groaned and opened his eyes. When he spoke, the children recognized the accent as pure London.

"Ow! Cor, Guv, what were we drinking last night? Where are we?"

Illya helped him sit up and the two men started to massage some feeling back into their numbed feet and ankles.

"Some companion you were Mark. We've been here since midnight last night, and you slept like a baby all of that time."

Mark managed a grin.

"I slept like a log you mean, Guv. Not like a baby. Babies wake up every two hours."

"Very amusing. Can you get up yet? Try, because we have to get of here."

Mark nodded and scrambled to his feet.

"I reckon we owe you two kids big time for coming here and finding us."

"Are you crooks?"

Kate elbowed her brother.

"Silly, crooks don't look like that. Crooks have black beards and ugly faces."

Mark and Illya exchanged a look of amusement, and Mark grinned at them.

"Not all crooks are ugly, but no, we are the good guys. Did you say we're in the middle of a wood?"

"Yeah Mister, Three Bears' Wood we calls it. That's why Kate and I wanted to explore this house. We thought this might be where the three bears lived."

Mark looked around and shook his head, repressing a shudder.

"Well if they did, rather them than me. Guv, if they took our communicators, didn't they?"

Illya nodded.

"Yes, and we have a very short time left to get to a telephone and contact London to let them know about the drop."

Mark nodded, and looked at the two children, who were watching them curiously.

"Can you show us the way out of the wood?"

Illya shook his head.

"Don't need to, Mark. I have a compass inside the buckle of my belt."

"A compass in your buckle? Wow, how come I didn't get one of them. Guv?"

Illya looked amused.

"Because I only made the one so far. Come along. Where do you two live?"

Jack told them the name of their village and Illya looked enquiringly at Mark. Mark nodded.

"We drove through it remember? There was a bush on the village green clipped in the shape of a rabbit?"

"THRUSH took us north west for three miles before we were out of the van and coming on foot…" he chuckled at the memory. "They had problems with you Mark, coming through this wood, because they had to carry you. So, if we reverse our course…no…three miles…if we walk due south rather than south east we should come out pretty close to the village. We can deliver these two to their parents. Do they have a telephone we will be able to use?"

Jack shook his head.

"Can't afford a phone, mister. There's one in the village center though, and if it ain't working, the vicar will let you use his."

Resisting the impulse to roll his eyes, Illya removed his compass, examined it and pointed the way.

"We go thataway."

Three days later, Mark Slate and Illya sat together in the commissary, drinking hot tea. They had returned from their mission to England just two hours earlier, and were taking a well-earned breather before heading up to write out their report. Napoleon Solo came up and sat down on their table.

"So I hear you two were rescued by a couple of kids?"

Mark grinned cheerfully.

"Eleven and ten years old. Nice kids. Kinda remind me of my sister and me when we were their age. Plucky kids too. If they hadn't decided to explore that old place, no way would we have ever got out. A chance in a million them turning up out of the blue."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

"You two are more fortunate than you know. Mister Waverly has just had a call from section one in London. They went out to check on that old house in the wood, in case THRUSH left something behind. All they found was a pile of rubble, still smoking."

"Smoking rubble?" Illya repeated, staring at his partner. "Are you telling me that it blew up?"

Napoleon nodded.

"As far as they have been able to judge, it was set to blow up about midnight of the evening you escaped. They dumped you there, set a bomb and left it with a twelve-hour time-fuse. They were not about to take any chances of your being rescued."

"They had no way of knowing about two disobedient children playing in the woods against their parents' wishes." Mark said, stunned. "Those kids really did save our lives then Guv, even more than they knew!"

Napoleon nodded. Illya sat back in his chair.

"We told their parents that they found us and rescued us, but not that they saved our lives. If I had only known…if I had searched that house before we left…"

"Guv, it was getting dark and we had no lights or anything. We did the only thing we could. I wish we could give those kids a reward of some sort, though. Some way of showing our gratitude."

Illya glanced at Napoleon, who nodded. Napoleon got up and came around behind his two friends and put his arms around their shoulders.

"I think if we out our heads together, we might be able to come up with something…"


	19. Chapter 19 - A Rose By Any Other Name

Napoleon Solo rubbed his face ruefully, watching Olivia Bletchley stride angrily away. His cheek smarted where she had slapped him. He looked round the room, suddenly aware that all conversations in the commissary had stopped. There were eyes, eyes everywhere. Illya was in the corner at their table, studiously fixing his eyes on his plate of food instead.

No, no if he went and sat down by Illya, then people might get the idea that he was going to start discussing Olivia. That would not do. He followed Olivia out of the door.

He found her at her desk in translations. She glanced up briefly as he paused inside the door, then deliberately turned her back on him, picked up a telephone and started to dial a number. Shaking his head sadly, he left the room and returned to his office. He had just sat down when the door opened and his partner entered. Illya nodded and sat down, eyeing his pile of paperwork with distaste.

"Sometimes I wonder if all these forms and reports don't reproduce themselves when our backs are turned." He glanced up at Napoleon who was sitting with his chin in his hands.

"Are you alright, my friend?"

Napoleon grunted, then looked up.

"I thought I had a pretty good bead on women. I spend a lot of time working hard to understand them, the way they think and feel, the subjects that interest them, and usually I do all right."

"Not this time?"

He shook his head.

"I apparently misread Olivia completely. She has a pretty strong right arm too. My cheek still stings. I could swear the sound of that slap echoed off the walls."

"What are you going to do?"

"Try to apologize."

"Knowing you my friend, you will have already tried that. So…a gift?"

Napoleon nodded.

"It has to be something…I don't know…unique…"

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"I have an idea."

He wrote down an address on a sheet of paper and handed it to his friend.

"Go to this place right now, ask for Yaroslav Dunayevsky. Tell him I sent you."

"For sure?"

Illya nodded.

"He's a friend. Napoleon, just go. I'll see to your paperwork, go now."

Napoleon smiled.

"Thanks Illya."

Napoleon found himself driving to a small, out of the way, pleasant backstreet in Queens, a very nice red brick house sitting back from the road with a large front lawn. He rang the bell and almost at once the door was opened and a tall, broad man, thick black hair, full faced beard with muscles like Hercules stood there. He was almost the complete antithesis of Illya.

"Er…Hello, Yaroslav Dunayevsky? I am Napoleon Solo. I'm a good friend of Illya Nikovich Kuryakin. He sent me to see you."

The fierce look in the man's eyes melted and he grinned, showing a perfect set of teeth. He spoke good English in a very thick Russian accent."

"Ahhh, yes, my good friend Illya Nikovich! Come in! come in! What can I do for you Napoleon Solo?"

Haltingly, wondering why he was here, Napoleon explained briefly his conversation with Illya and the man laughed.

"I know why my good friend sent you to me. You want one of my monks!"

Napoleon blinked.

"A monk? I don't think….!"

But the big Russian slapped him heartily on the back.

"Yes, my new friend Napoleon Solo, you want something special for your lady friend. Something she will never get anywhere else. I show you. Come, come"

He led the way through the house to the rear of the property where the large garden was given over, in part to a long greenhouse. Napoleon followed his new friend along rows and rows of seedling plants, then to rows of roses in varying stages of maturity. Finally, into a special tented area at the furthest end, which was kept locked.

"As you see, I create and cultivate flowers. I specialize in roses. Now you see my greatest creation, Napoleon Solo. One I think your lady will admire. I call it The **Blue** **Monk.** "

Napoleon stared. Several rows of beautifully formed roses, a glorious deep blue in colour, bluer still than Illya's eyes. Tentatively he touched one and Yaroslav laughed.

"They are quite genuine, and impossible to find in nature. They are also hybrid, and they lack the ability to reproduce themselves, meaning that each bloom is individually created and unique."

"They are astonishing…and stunning! They must cost a fortune to produce!"

"Tsh! They are priceless, but between friends, especially friends of my good pal Illya, it is a gift. Choose your favourite, and I hope my Blue Monk will help to melt your lady's heart!"

Napoleon wrung the man's hand, and selected a deep blue rose, almost, but not quite in full bloom. Yaroslav nodded in approval, and handed Napoleon a small card.

"Give this to the lady. It will give her some advice on how to keep her Blue Monk alive for as long as possible."

Napoleon arrived back in headquarters and went straight down to translations. The room was full and busy. Olivia was speaking on the telephone. Napoleon waited patiently, and when she was done he stepped forward and before she had chance to say a word, he handed her the blue rose. She stared at it, completely dumbfounded. Napoleon smiled.

"It is called the Blue Monk Rose, and each one is specially created and quite unique. I think it is very fitting, because that is what you pointed out to me about women and you are quite right. I should never make assumptions about anyone. I apologize, and I promise never to make that same mistake again. Will you forgive me Olivia?"

"It's…it's beautiful!" she replied, still staring at the rose in her hand. Napoleon handed her the card.

"Its creator wants you to have this. To keep the rose alive for longer…"

Olivia took the card, looked at it and smiled.

"Thank you Napoleon. I'll see you tonight?"


	20. Chapter 20 - SICK

"I can't believe you said that!"

"Said what? What did I say?"

"You said `what I wouldn't give for a quiet life!' Do you really mean that, Illya?"

Illya raised his head with difficulty. His neck hurt, his head was pounding, his throat was sore and burning and his stomach still roiling unpleasantly. He eyed his partner.

"Right now, Napoleon? Yes, I do mean it. I have been beaten and kicked, force-fed something that smelled like it spent three weeks fomenting on a sewage farm, without going into what it tasted like, and my throat hurts with all the vomiting, so yes, my friend. At this moment, a quiet life selling newspapers or growing flowers is very appealing to me."

"You've never said anything like that before."

Illya groaned again, as a hot wave rolled over him, followed closely by another severe wave of nausea. He hadn't the energy to get to his feet to stagger to the bathroom. He rolled over and leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited violently into the bowl he had put on the floor beside the bed in case of his need of it. Napoleon found himself watching in sympathy. THRUSH had been particularly sadistic this time. Having found that yet again their Russian prisoner had resisted their physical torture, they had decided on something more unpleasant; and had started force-feeding him with food that was spoiled, or bad. Illya was uncertain if any of it had been directly poisoned, but at this point it felt like it made very little difference. He could put up with pain, but vomiting he hated. He hated the feeling of nausea even more.

Napoleon had found his partner and gotten him out of there, and then blown the place sky-high. He had been very worried about Illya, and had tried to get him to the nearest hospital, but Illya was having none of it. Illya had protested that a bout of food-poisoning thanks to THRUSH was all that was wrong and that he would be fine in a day or two.

All the same, Napoleon had been concerned. Illya had been too sick even to sit in the car for more than five minutes to be driven anywhere, so in the end, Napoleon had pulled off the road and booked into a motel for a couple of nights. He had wrapped his partner up in blankets on one of the beds, with a large bowl beside him in case of his need of it, and a glass of water with a straw…and strict instructions to try and take a sip regularly.

With the bedroom lights dimmed and the door closed to, Napoleon had contacted Doctor Romeo at headquarters and asked him for his advice. Romeo had been conservatively positive, but he had, nonetheless, given Napoleon strict instructions about things to look out for. In the meantime, Mister Waverly had authorized them to stay there until Illya was well enough to travel.

Their room had two single beds, but all the same, Napoleon was too worried to sleep too soundly, and he awakened several times that night as his friend staggered to the bathroom, clutching his bowl wretchedly in his arms.

Knowing there was not a lot he could do, Napoleon remained alert until he heard Illya flush the toilet, and he met him at the bathroom door and took the bowl from his arms. Even in the dim light, Illya looked ghostly white.

"You get back to bed, and I'll rinse this out and bring it back to you. Try and take some more sips of water."

Illya nodded, relinquished the bowl thankfully and made his way to his bed and fell on it, asleep almost straight away. Napoleon emptied the bowl and rinsed it out, then returned it to the floor beside Illya's head. Illya was doing alright. He had a proper nasty dose of food poisoning, thanks to THRUSH, but he was still determinedly sipping his water, and managing, for the most part, to keep it down. Napoleon was aware that although he was not as well hydrated as usual, given the sickness and the diarrhoea, he was certainly not dehydrated.

By morning, Napoleon's eyes felt heavy, but he knew he would still not be able to sleep for worrying about his partner. He sat up on the edge of his bed and watched Illya sleeping.

Illya had spent the first half of the night virtually living in the bathroom, and Napoleon had been jerked awake three times by the sound of violent retching. As morning drew closer, however, things appeared to have settled down more, and both men had been able to snatch some quality sleep. He was determined not to awaken the sleeping Russian, however. Illya needed the rest. He couldn't have managed to get much sleep last night, so Napoleon topped up his partner's almost empty glass of water and sat silently by the window, waiting for him to stir.

Eventually, around ten o'clock, Napoleon turned hearing a sound. Illya had opened his eyes and was watching him.

"Hey, partner, how are you feeling this morning? Any improvement?"

Illya considered.

"A little better." He replied. "If you don't mind, I'll pass on the three-course breakfast though. What time is Waverly expecting us back?"

Napoleon smiled.

"As soon as you are able to take a seven-hour road trip."

"What? No helicopter rescue?"

"Not this time. According to Doctor Romeo, you are not about to die, so no air-lifting."

Illya nodded.

"In that case, I'll go back to sleep for a bit. You look like you could use some too."

Napoleon nodded.

"Probably true. I need a shower first. What about you? Do you need the bathroom?"

Illya shook his head.

"No, that appears to have eased off."

"Well, all the same I'll leave the door unlocked whilst I'm in there in case of…you know, an emergency. Only warn me before you flush though, or I'll get scalded."

Illya smirked.

"Thank you, my friend. Good night."

Twenty-four hours later, Illya was convalescing nicely. He had managed to eat a small bowl of chicken soup that his partner had scrounged from the motel restaurant, and was feeling a lot better. He and Napoleon were able to share the driving on their return trip, and were welcomed warmly by Mister Waverly when they reported to him for debriefing.

"How are you feeling now, Mister Kuryakin?" Waverly asked him, giving the Russian a hard stare. "You are looking very peaky."

"I am a lot better, sir. I am a little weak…I promised Napoleon I would report to medical before I leave today, sir."

Waverly nodded approvingly.

"See that you do Mister Kuryakin. It is regrettable that you were captured, but you completed your mission excellently. The valuable information you retrieved will be put to good use. In fact, once medical have finished with you, I want you to take another two days off to recover fully, because both you and Mister Solo are going to need to be at peak fitness for the next task I have lined up for you."

"Sir?" Solo asked, his interest peaked. Waverly smiled knowingly.

"I would get out your thermal underwear Mister Solo, because I want you both in Antarctica three days from now."

Solo's interested expression turned to dismay and he glanced across to his partner. Illya was grinning widely.

He was looking forward to this one.


	21. Chapter 21 - The Freaky Affair

It was a doozy of a problem this time and no mistake.

With Mark Slate in medical with concussion, and Napoleon Solo on vacation in Florida accompanying his Aunt Amy, the U.N.C.L.E's current dream team were Illya Kuryakin and April Dancer. When a new THRUSH threat was rumoured to have reared its ugly head in downtown Manhattan, Waverly did not hesitate in sending in Kuryakin and Dancer to investigate.

They had gone in, armed with the knowledge that in line with UNCLE's recent advances in brain research, THRUSH too had been investing hugely in research along very similar lines. Only, the word was they had big plans on using the information to create something very…different. A weapon? None of Waverly's spies could learn anything definitive about THRUSH'S new project, except that it was rumoured to be centuries ahead of its time. Strictly from the realms of science-fiction, even.

April had laughed derisively.

"That's what everyone thought when they were creating those lifelike killer robots…those android girls. I wouldn't put anything past THRUSH. They seem to have access to limitless funds. They can afford to buy all the big brains they need for their research work. I wonder what use they can put brain-wave research to though?"

Illya had had no reply for her. They had quickly found out for themselves, however.

They had had little trouble finding and infiltrating the satrap, and they found their way to the main labs where they had inadvertently stepped on a pressure sensitive pad under the floor which set off just about every alarm in the base. They were quickly surrounded by armed THRUSH goons, disarmed, tied up and led into the lab.

The equipment looked like something out of an old corny sci-fi movie. The individual bustling about looked even more unreal. He looked very like a cartoonist's impression of a mad scientist, with a shock of white hair that stood out around his head, steel rimmed round-eye glasses balanced on the end of his nose and a slight stammer, that gave the impression of one whose brain was working so fast that his mouth was unable to keep up.

They were led to two machines against the farthest wall. Surround and fed by wires and tubes of all kinds, the main function seemed to be to ensure that both victims were restrained so completely that neither were able to move as much as an eyelash. Over their heads was placed what was ostensibly a large hood hair dryer that came down so far that only their chins were visible below the rim.

What came next was fuzzy to both agents, as they both appeared to have passed out, although afterwards neither had any recollection of actually waking up. Illya's only clear memory was realizing that he was standing in the middle of the laboratory with a headache to beat all headaches. He had looked around for April, all he could see of her was a large protective cover draped over her from chin to toes, and her chin showing beneath the machine's hood. She was not moving or even moaning. Starting to worry, he had lashed out with his fist and caught the elderly scientist on the chin and knocked him out, then searched the room thoroughly, grabbing every bit of paperwork and every notebook he could find. It was in the act of trying to stuff the papers inside his shirt that he realized he wasn't wearing his own clothing. In fact, as he looked down at his now open top, at the small, pert breasts in their white lace bra that he realized something was very, very, very wrong. He glanced around and in two strides he crossed the room to where April was sitting still in her chair. He pulled off the sheet, and wrenched the hood up, and gaped, open-mouthed. He was looking down at himself. His own body…the face he saw in the mirror every morning, was sitting slightly lop-sided in the chair. The straps were undone, but the figure had not moved.

If that was his body sitting there, but he was not living in it, then who was? And whose body was this? Staring at his reflection in the shiny metallic surface of the hood, Illya saw April Dancer's face staring back at him, green eyes open in shock, the chest heaving.

Self-consciously, Illya stuffed the papers inside April's blouse…the blouse he was now wearing…and closed the remaining buttons up, hiding the bra from view before he leaned forward and shook the slumped figure.

"Hey, wake up!"

Illya watched his own eyes open, become wide in surprise and then alarm. He was confident that an able section two agent like April; he assumed it was April's mind inside his body; would be able to resist the impulse to scream, but it looked like it was a near thing. Illya couldn't blame her either. She leaned forward and touched his face, staring in fascination at seeing herself for the first time from someone else's perspective.

"Illya…is that you in there?"

Illya nodded.

"April I assume?"

April nodded.

"You…ahhh…you wear me well, Illya. I sound just like you!"

Illya grinned slightly at that.

"For the time being, it seems that you are me. I have all the papers from here that I can find. I suggest we get out of here."

He helped her to her feet, and she tottered slightly, her head spinning and pounding in beat with her heart…or rather, Illya's heart.

"Blow it up?" she suggested hopefully. He shook his head.

"Not if you don't want to live out the rest of your days in my body. By the way April…please…when we get back to headquarters, can you try to walk more like…well, more like me? You walk in mincing like that you'll get me a reputation that I don't deserve."

April smirked.

"I'll try…but you could try walking a little more alluringly Illya. You're clumping around like a man!"

"I _am_ a man April, and quite happy to remain so. I have no wish to live out my days as you, either. Come on, I think I saw where they put our communicators."

They had found their communicators without too much difficulty, and called headquarters for a specialized clean-up crew to retrieve the equipment for study. While they waited, Illya locked the lab from the inside to prevent any THRUSHies interrupting whilst he got to work. Within thirty minutes he had managed to put together a small concoction of his own making that emitted a sleep-inducing gas. Armed with protective masks and several phials containing this mixture, the two eventually crept out of the lab and made their way through the corridors, smashing one of the phials to the floor whenever they met against resistance. Before long they were out of the building, leaving behind a score of sleeping THRUSHes, all snoring peacefully.

Once they were hiding out of sight, Illya removed his mask, and tossing it aside, pulled out his communicator pen and activated it.

"Open channel D."

Mister Waverly's voice came back almost immediately.

"Miss Dancer! You two took your time. How did everything go?"

Illya met April's eyes and raised an eyebrow as he responded.

"Fine so far sir, we are awaiting the clean-up crew. And Mister Waverly, hard as it might be for you to believe…I am not Miss Dancer. I am Mister Kuryakin."

Illya could imagine the old man's eyebrows rising high at that revelation. Whatever was going through his mind however, he hid it well. He simply cleared his throat and replied;

"Is that so? I look forward to hearing your report."

Two days later, Illya and April were still confined to medical whilst the staff performed every test they knew how to perform. Specialized equipment had been brought in to investigate their brain-wave patterns in as much intricate detail as possible. The scientists, admittedly with Illya's assistance, poured over the notes and diagrams Illya had retrieved from the THRUSH lab, conferring and working closely with the doctors, and still, they were admittedly little further forward.

Psychiatric had been brought into the investigative team too, but doctor Fergus, although thorough in her assessments, was not in any hurry to report her findings as yet. She proclaimed that the two agents were suffering understandable stress and strain, but was keeping her own counsel and watching the progress of the tests carefully. For April and Illya the waiting was dull and interminable.

For Mark Slate, also in sickbay, almost recovered from his concussion, the whole thing had an unreal quality. He had what looked like Illya Kuryakin sitting beside his bed, chatting away the way April always did, whilst at the same time, what looked like April stood glumly staring out of the window, replying to any questions or comments with forbidding, one word answers. Illya was not a happy man.

With a little tuition and practice, April had got the hang of shaving his face pretty well, but April was very exacting about her appearance…even though she was not the one living in her body, she declared that she was still its legal owner and she had to look at it. She hated to see it neglected. She had argued with Illya that if he treated her hair the way he generally treated his own, it would look like a frowsy bush in less than a day. He had thereafter been forced to go to one of the girls who excelled at hair and sit and keep still whilst his…or rather whilst _April's_ hair was washed and styled, and then sit still in medical whilst April, in his own body, sat beside him before a mirror, giving him a thorough grounding on how to apply make-up properly. What didn't help was Mark Slate in the background, grinning all over his irritating face!

All Illya wanted was to go home. But he couldn't even do that. Not in this body. If he went home looking like April Dancer, he would be reported by his very wide-awake neighbours as an intruder. The only way would be for April to come along and introduce him officially to his own neighbours as a cousin or something, so that he could live peacefully in his own home. He could do the same for April. But every time he had tried insisting on going home, he had been given a flat no. Under no circumstances were either he or April to be allowed to leave the medical complex. They could choose to stay in guest quarters, but they should not stir from there unless called down to medical. Unless Waverly had tasks for them to do?

The retrieval team had managed to salvage the professor's equipment from the lab, and it too was being carefully analysed, but they had to work out exactly how it had managed to accomplish what it had done. Take two individuals and effectively swap their minds over.

All in all, Mark mused, watching the pair, Illya seemed to be having a more difficult time accepting the situation than April. She merely sat by his side much of the day, chatting as she normally would. The only difference was that she remarked every so often on being unable to get used to hearing Illya speaking whenever she said anything. The other differences, such as using the bathroom she appeared to find highly amusing, although Mark was careful not to ask her to elaborate on _that_ subject.

Illya, on the other hand was, April had to admit, having a pretty thin time of it. After three days living in her body, he had awakened one morning, and found himself doubled over with pain and nausea. April, half amused and half embarrassed had been forced to explain to him that the almost unbearable ache in his lower abdomen coupled with nausea and occasional vomiting was a sure sign that her cycle was due to begin within twelve hours or so. Illya stared at her, deeply in shock.

"You are joking? Tell me you are joking?"

"Sorry, Illya. I wouldn't joke about something like that. The nurse will give you what you need to use, and…the side effects will go away in a day or two, but the doctor can give you medication to help if its gets any worse."

Illya had stared at her for a long moment, until finally his sense of humour suddenly kicked in and he grinned ruefully.

"You know, it would have been far less traumatic all round if Napoleon and I had been sent to that satrap."

"Well if it had been you and I Tovarisch, I could have lived with it."

Napoleon Solo entered the room accompanied by Alexander Waverly and Doctor Simpson. Napoleon walked over to Illya, and looked him up and down in his new, feminine body. April's body with Illya's mind inside it was less attractive than usual. The hair was tied back into a ponytail out of the way, and she…or rather, he was dressed in a black slacks and a white open-necked, very plain blouse. Facial make-up was minimal. Obviously the least that April would let him get away with. On the other hand, Illya's body, with April's mind living inside had dressed in a very expensive suit in a deep blue that brought out the blue of his eyes. A white silk shirt and a tie decorated with cartoon characters completed the ensemble. Napoleon grinned sideways at April's choice of suits, but grasped his partner by the hand, noting that his grip was considerably less powerful than he was used to. He looked into April's lovely green eyes and saw a mixture of emotions in their depths.

"How are you doing, partner? Mister Waverly called me and let me know what happened. I got here as soon as I could."

Illya was pathetically pleased to see Napoleon. He felt a lump form in his throat and coughed, trying to clear it and cover the moment. Being female was sometimes more of a challenge than he could have ever anticipated. The seemingly automatic emotional physical responses to stimuli was most disconcerting at times. Between dealing with female menses for the first time, female emotional responses that were alien to his nature, and knowing that this might be him now, forever, he for one was finding things hard. Even more of a challenge, somehow, was dressing and undressing, washing and showering, knowing that he was becoming far more familiar with April Dancer's body than he was comfortable with. He had at first tried to shower with his eyes closed in order to maintain her modesty, but after slipping and nearly breaking his ankle… _her ankle_ , he realized that it was something they both would have to deal with.

Illya tried to smile. He opened his mouth to reply to Napoleon's question, but Doctor Simpson got there first.

"If it had been you and Napoleon, they probably wouldn't have swapped you over." He said. "I imagine the shock of the gender change was part of the attraction of the experiment. Seeing if it would still work."

Illya turned to face the doctor.

"Any more news doctor?" he asked. The doctor nodded.

"Some, Mister Kuryakin. We have worked out that those machines have been used three times before, and each time switching two people of the same gender. They have not, however, been used to reverse the process. The devices have been designed to keep computerized records of every event. It appears that on each of the three occasions, the reversal procedure was attempted and failed."

April came over and stood beside Illya.

"What are you saying, doctor?"

"That it is impossible to use these same machines to reverse the process. Whether it is the design or process used by the machine, or whether the process itself cannot be reversed is uncertain. However, do not lose hope just yet. We are still investigating exactly how this process works. The make-up of a person's mind and thought patterns are an integral part of the brain itself. It is hard to believe that the awareness of an individual can be physically moved from one human body to another…"

Mister Waverly cleared his throat.

"I quite agree with you doctor, but the evidence does seem to suggest otherwise."

Simpson nodded.

"Yes. It's an interesting conundrum isn't it? Our scientists are having a whale of a time with this little puzzle."

Something snapped inside Illya. April's body was reacting the way he guessed any normal female would under trying circumstances, but Illya had no experience of dealing with it. April's hormones were obviously going to be more active at this point during her cycle, and they were making him feel more emotional than he had ever been in his life. Determined not to lose himself any more than he already had, Illya was doing his best to bury his raging emotions as deeply as possible, but the strain was becoming unbearable. Forgetting that his boss was in the room, he exploded.

"A little puzzle? An interesting conundrum? What are we to you all doctor? People or lab rats? You're keeping us both trapped in here like rats in a cage with no way of knowing if we are ever going to be…!"

Illya stopped abruptly, his face red, and he fled the room, slamming the door behind himself. Pink faced, the doctor glanced round at April who also was looking annoyed. She, however, seemed to be having some success at achieving Illya's customary stony stoicism.

"Sorry, I didn't mean…poor choice of words…I was just going to say that we are still investigating the notes that THRUSH scientist left, and there are several possible directions we are following. Doctor Fergus also has some valid ideas. It takes time."

April spoke for the first time, in Illya's Russian accent.

"You are wrong to keep us cooped up here doctor. We are always available at the end of a communicator. Could we not at least be allowed to go to our own homes? Illya especially would find it easier to put up with what he is going through."

The doctor nodded reluctantly.

"Very well, if you both promise to report in here every morning at ten unless we contact you, we can do our tests and release you daily. Always keep your communicators with you though."

April nodded. She glanced at Mister Waverly who nodded.

"Mister Slate, perhaps you will take care of your partner for the time being, and Mister Solo?"

Napoleon nodded and literally ran out of the door and down the corridor.

He found his partner on the roof of the building, crumpled in a corner. April's hair was coming down. Clearly Illya had been pulling at it. Contrary to appearance however, Illya was not weeping. Not yet, anyway.

He looked up as Napoleon approached.

"Women are amazing creatures, Napoleon." He said as his partner crouched beside him. "They are physically slightly weaker than we are, but they make up for it by training and learning skills. They bleed every month and never say a word about it, they just get on with things. This whole female hormonal thing is crippling me. My emotions are running riot. If this is what they deal with every day, or at least every month, how do they put up with it? Napoleon, this is Agent Dancer's body I am stuck in, and her body is reacting with strong emotion that I am not used to living with. How does she deal with it without letting it show?"

Napoleon smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"They deal with it because they have to, my friend. They have no choice about it. It is no doubt something they are used to."

"April seems to be handling it all a lot better than I am."

Napoleon laughed.

"She's in the body of a stoic Russian. She has no fluctuating hormones to deal with."

"I miss being that stoic Russian. I am not fond of being a female...for more reasons than one. Napoleon, I can't go back to my apartment in this body. My neighbours would call the police…can I come and sleep in your spare room?"

Napoleon grinned.

"Of course. Perhaps I could give you a crash course on how to dress as a woman? You look like a female version of yourself."

Illya rolled his eyes.

"I wonder why that would be?" he muttered as he got to his feet.

Alexander Waverly returned to his office, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. This brain-wave affair had so far robbed him of his top two teams. He could put Slate and Solo together of course, but it was clear that they were going to be needed by their partners. He had every confidence in the UNCLE science and medical personnel, but the fact remained that this condition that had been imposed

Upon April and Illya might be permanent. How long would it be prudent to wait? How were their mental capacities? He sent for doctor Fergus.

When she arrived, he quickly asked her for her take on the whole Dancer/Kuryakin situation. She smiled.

"That is a question with many different answers Mister Waverly. Which one are you after?"

Waverly puffed on his pipe and regarded her thoughtfully through the smoke.

"You decide doctor."

She sat back and regarded him.

"My first thought of course, was that nothing has changed at all. I wondered if they had simply been hypnotized to believe they were the other person ."

"But they're not hypnotized?"

"No, I was thorough with the pair of them. There's nothing like that there. Whatever has happened, is physical. Their brainwave patterns are on file now…as it happens, only a recent procedure. But useful this time in establishing the facts here. Mister Kuryakin's brain has been superimposed with a new brain pattern… that of Miss Dancer; and vice versa. That would suggest to filmgoers at least, that the brain patterns had been removed and replaced."

"In your opinion, how are they coping with what has happened? If it should turn out to be a permanent condition, how in your opinion are they likely to deal with it?"

"If you are asking me would Miss Dancer be able to successfully reconcile herself to becoming a man, then yes, eventually. They will each go through a period of mourning of course. I believe that it would be more difficult for Mister Kuryakin than it would for Miss Dancer, if only because being male he is unaccustomed to dealing with the greater hormonal changes that are part and parcel of being female. That being said, having no alternative, they would both find a way of dealing with their situation eventually."

"And their chances of becoming qualified once more for the field?"

"Well, I'd say for Miss Dancer, light, local duties right away, sir. I would give Mister Kuryakin some more time."

"Not doing so well huh?" Waverly looked sympathetic, and, slightly helpless.

"Let us just say that assuming medical manage to find a way to correct this situation, Mister Kuryakin will have a much closer understanding of the female psyche than any other man living."

Waverly nodded.

"Is he cooperating with you, doctor?"

Fergus just smiled.

It was with a great deal of relief for April Dancer, still of course, in Illya's body, when she was given leave to join Mark Slate on a few local courier jobs. It was nice have something positive to do and to feel useful rather than sitting around at home or at headquarters signing forms and waiting. As they sat in Mark's car, Mark glanced sideways at his partner.

"You know April, I will have to call you Illya in public. I can't imagine the ribbing Illya will get after all this is over if everyone hears me calling him April."

"You do believe it will be all right in the end, then?"

"Of course it will." Mark replied. "Besides, it is pretty weird having you looking like Kuryakin. He still scares the willies out of me when he gives me that icy stare. You have that look off a treat."

April smiled.

"I've been practicing it in front of the mirror. I'm worrying about Illya though. He's having trouble coping with being me."

Mark glanced at her for a moment, puzzled, and then nodded in understanding.

"Hmmm the see-sawing hormones and mood-swings and…"

She dug him in the ribs indignantly and he laughed.

"Tough stuff for a bloke to deal with April. Illya's made of stern stuff. He'll deal with it. He'll know you pretty well when all this is over."

She blushed.

"Like I know him. Illya isn't the only one having trouble dealing with….certain things." She shook her head at his enquiring look. "Never mind…"

She suddenly hissed in pain.

"Yee-ow!"

She leant forward, her head in her hands, the slightly grumbling headache she had had ever since leaving headquarters suddenly a hundred times worse. She clamped her mouth tightly shut, closing her eyes against the light.

"April! April!"

He pulled to the side of the road and pulled out his communicator.

"Open channel D please. Medical. Doctor Simpson, this is Agent Slate. Agent Dancer is almost paralysed with a terrible headache, doctor. No, she can't even function. I've never seen anything this serious before. I have to bring her back right away."

"As soon as you can Mister Slate." Doctor Simpson replied. "Mister Kuryakin has just collapsed with the same condition. There has to be a connection."

"On my way."

April was almost delirious with the agonizing pain. Gradually though, she found that as they drew nearer to headquarters, the pains in her head receded until by the time they were going back through Del Floria's shop, it was back to the dull ache she recalled before. She felt slightly shaky, however, and was glad to be able to lie down and rest. The severity of the pain had been exhausting. Illya was unconscious on the next bed. Napoleon was close beside him, looking worried.

"As soon as you left, Illya began to suffer increasing amounts of the pain." Simpson informed them. "When you called, he had just passed out."

Napoleon was running his hands through his black hair.

"So what does this mean, doctor? That April and Illya cannot be separated? That they need to be together? Why if they are fully switched? What difference does it make? Have they had any pain before?"

April raised herself on one elbow.

"When we first woke up in those labs we had horrific headaches, but they wore off quickly enough. This was a lot worse than that though. I really felt as my head was being pulled apart."

Simpson rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Your minds have been ripped from your own bodies and dumped elsewhere, but there must still be some kind of connection there. The question is…are you connected to each other, that is to your own bodies somehow, or to the machines?"

"Perhaps both, doctor." April replied. Frowning. "Perhaps if you take Illya away and leave me here and see if the same thing happens? Then take us both away…"

Simpson nodded.

"We need to investigate this. I need to speak with my colleagues and with our science division. I suggest you both get some rest and I'll be with you presently. Mister Slate and Solo, you may remain with your partners if you wish, but let me know of any changes."

"Yes sir." Solo replied, sitting down once more and taking Illya's small hand, looking at April's elfin face and auburn hair and asking himself if he could ever get used to the mind of his partner being in this female body, should this condition turn out to be irreversible.

The next three days involved detailed testing for both Dancer and Kuryakin. First, whilst Dancer was kept in medical, Napoleon was instructed to take his partner out in the car, with a nurse in attendance, just in case, to see what, if anything happened. Just as before, they discovered that Kuryakin had a grumbling headache as soon as he left medical, whereupon once he reached a five mile distance, suddenly he was crippled with agonizing pains in his head. Napoleon drove hurriedly back again, whilst the nurse kept a close eye on her patient to ensure that there were no other changes.

The following day, both patients were removed from medical, each with a nurse in tow, and taken in opposite directions. This time, they each got little more than two miles away from HQ when both patients began to exhibit severe pain and distress.

On the third day, it was decided to remove the machines, just to make sure that they were not instrumental in causing the pain. The machines were gone all day, and when the section three agents returned, with the report of having taken the machines on a fifty mile round-trip, it was clear. The machines were not causing or instrumental in causing the pain.

Doctor Simpson, Doctor Peterson, Doctor Romeo, Doctor Fergus and the science and research division met together to discuss these latest results and what they could mean. UNCLE New York's Chief scientist, Professor Adam Kamil removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Well, the fact is, we have examined those machines in minute detail, and examined the man's notes, and we have been able to replicate the procedure, with two white mice."

"White mice? They gave you a good account of the experience?" Simpson grinned. Kamil shrugged, the joke going right over his head.

"We painted numbers on their backs, and trained one of them to perform a simple task, and then attempted the switch procedure with the untrained mouse. We know it worked, because the untrained mouse was then able to perform the trained tasks, whereas the trained mouse had lost the ability. A clear case of the successful switch. Following your recent discoveries about Miss Dancer and Mister Kuryakin needing to remain together, we performed the same tests on the mice…but we kept them apart."

"What happened?"

"We tested the neural responses of these mice and we found that in each case, prolonged separation caused the process to reverse itself automatically. It seems that this switch process is only stable when the two subjects remain in close physical proximity to one another. When they are apart it causes intense pain, unconsciousness and then reversal."

Peterson beamed.

"So we have a cure for our agents then?"

The professor's mouth turned down.

"One of our tested mice died. We believe it was neural shock that killed it. We have a way to reverse the process, but Kuryakin and Dancer will need to be warned. It will be very painful and traumatic, and may cause neural shock. It could be fatal."

One by one the staff looked round at doctor Fergus. She had been working with both of the agents concerned every day since the switch had happened, trying to help them to deal with their new situation.

"What do you think they'll say?"

Fergus looked round the room.

"If just one of them agrees and one refuses, we cannot go ahead with it. I can't imagine either of them refusing the take the chance, under the circumstances. How would you cope with it gentlemen? I believe they will both be willing to snatch at any straw. Especially Mister Kuryakin. He has been having more trouble coming to terms with his situation than Miss Dancer."

"Well then gentlemen, we'll put this solution to them as the only chance." Simpson said decisively. "My suggestion though is to put them both in two separate, fully equipped ambulances. That way if either of them do go into neural shock, they can be treated without delay. Doctor Peterson, doctor Fergus, if you will join me in passing on our news? Professor, and the rest of you, thank you for all of your sterling work on this matter. Doctor Romeo, since we have learned all we possibly can from these machines, would you oversee their dismantling and see that they are locked away securely in the UNCLE vault? Professor?"

Kamil nodded eagerly.

"Yes, yes, a most distressing and unethical invention. We need to keep the notes safely in the vault though, just in case THRUSH ever comes knocking here for them."

The meeting broke up, and the three doctors made their way back up to medical where their two patients were in the day room, reading and signing off reports brought down for them by their partners. They got to their feet when they saw the delegation arriving. Illya, whom had been feeling achy and nauseous all week was feeling better, and despite still being stuck in April's female body, was heartily sick of coming in to medical every day. He was desperate to see the sun and feel the wind on his face. He glowered at the two men and their female colleague. Fergus ignored his glare and smiled kindly.

"We have a meeting with Mister Waverly in his office in five minutes. Would you to mind fetching your partners and meeting us there? We have…news for you."

Illya and April stared at one another, their eyes wide with mixed hope and dread; nodded their heads and headed off up the corridor. More sedately, armed with their evidence provided by research and development, the doctors made their way up to Waverly's office.

April and Illya stared at one another as they heard the three doctors' proposal. So that was what that agonizing pain had been all about? Their minds protesting badly at being separated from their own bodies. The risk was a little worrying, but to weigh that against being stuck forever in this position, especially being unable to separate at any time would eventually become unbearable. Illya stared at April, his eyes a little pleading.

April, to her immense surprise, found that, although she was every bit female, she had enjoyed being a man temporarily. She had enjoyed the way people responded to her as she marched through the corridors. Since the majority of staff had not been briefed on what was happening, to everyone out there she had experienced what it was like to be Illya. To be regarded with respect and awe as Illya was. She was shocked to find that she was in no hurry at all to change back. Then she looked again at her own body. Illya seemed in a way to be dying inside a little every day. He was a man who never showed his emotions, although she was certain he had them. To be a man who constantly fought to keep every emotion tightly under wraps and then find himself besieged by strong emotions triggered by hormonal surges alien to him was clearly taking its toll on him. He was still largely stoic, but the battle within him was easier to see these days, but he seemed to be wilting. The pleading in his eyes was as loud as a siren to her. She nodded. She had paused for less than half a second, but to Illya it had seemed like a lifetime.

"When can we go through the procedure?"

Doctor Simpson smiled at her.

"Give us an hour Miss Dancer. Once the ambulances are prepared for you, we can begin.

Whilst they were back down in medical, waiting for the time to begin this new attempt, Napoleon spoke to his partner about something that was worrying him.

"Illya…should I go with you or with April?"

"What do you mean? Me of course!"

"Illya, if I go with you…as you are now, then if all goes as we hope it will, April will be in that body, and you will be in the other ambulance, in your own body. Would you rather I were with you at the start or at the finish of this procedure?"

"If it works, I will be home again…but possibly in medical difficulties? I will at least be in good hands, and you can catch up with me when I get back here. If it fails to work though, my friend, I think I will certainly need you with me then."

Napoleon nodded.

"All my hopes for you, Illya. You know, if I had been in your position, I might have tried to have a little fun with it…"

Illya smirked.

"I don't doubt that! You would probably have made a much more successful woman than me Napoleon, because you at least understand them so well."

"Well so will you from now on, whether this works or not."

Illya nodded.

"One or two experiences these past few days were ones I never thought I would have to endure, being male. I have always respected women, Napoleon, but now I have learned to admire women even more, having experienced some of their…problems."

Napoleon smiled.

"I happen to know that April had thoroughly enjoyed being you. She has always fancied you, did you know that?"

Illya's eyes opened wide.

"No, I had no idea of it. I hope that fact did not cause her any difficulties."

"Well, she is a professional. She wouldn't say so even if it had. She might tell you…although I doubt it. She did say she was astonished at how hungry she seemed to be in your body."

Illya shrugged.

"In this body Napoleon, eating really hasn't seemed much of an issue. If she eats as much in this body as she probably did in mine, she will be putting weight on pretty quickly. I really hope this works!"

Finally, the time came for them to leave. They were strapped down onto the ambulance trolleys, with various monitors attached to them, and then they set off, in two different directions.

As before, before the ambulances had covered three miles, Illya cried out in pain, his eyes tightly closed, his teeth gritted. Napoleon held his hand tightly, hating to see his partner suffering so much. He was look down at April's body, but the words issuing from her lips were Russian. Before, they had always stopped the vehicle, turned around and hurried back to safety. The idea on this occasion was to let this pain run its course, but it was horrible to see. Tears were sliding down Napoleon's face in sympathy before his partner's agonized screams cut out abruptly, his head lolling. He stepped back out of the way as Doctor Peterson and the nurse, Naomie Richards hurried to check the patient. There were several heart-freezing moments when April's heart faltered, and her breathing stopped, then came the reassuring beep, beep, beep, beep of the monitor, and her chest was rising and falling in regular rhythm. Peterson stepped back and mopped his brow.

"Safe and strong output. We keep going until we hear from the other ambulance. Only one question to answer now."

Napoleon nodded.

"Yes, doctor. Is this April, or is it Illya?"

In the other ambulance, Mark Slate watched, his heart in his mouth as Illya's body went into severe shock, and five minutes passed before doctor Simpson and nurse Ellie coaxed a response. It was a further ten minutes until they had managed to stabilize him into a regular, safe rhythm. Mark let out a shaky breath.

"I really hope this has worked for you both." He muttered, shaking his head sadly. Doctor Simpson sat down beside him, heaving a sigh that revealed his relief.

"We've just heard from the other ambulance. All is well there too. Miss Dancer's body is stable…but whoever is in there in still unconscious. We will just have to wait until they reawaken before we can know if this experiment was successful. We are both now on our way back to UNCLE medical."

The two ambulances arrived back simultaneously, and Mark and Napoleon followed their partners back down to medical, each of them wondering which bedside to sit next to.

Three hours later, a pair of lovely green eyes opened a fraction, April's head moved on the pillow.

"Mark…is that you?"

Mark nodded.

"It's me. Is that still you, Illya? Or are you back April?"

The eyes smiled tiredly.

"It's me Mark. I'm April. I sound like myself again. It worked!"

Mark hugged his partner fiercely.

"It's so good to have you back where you belong."

"How is Illya?"

Mark looked at the other bed. Illya was still unconscious, breathing easily, his heart-rate strong and regular. Napoleon was talking to him constantly, but so far no sign of movement. Mark nudged Napoleon.

"Hey Guv, April's back where she belongs. It worked!"

Napoleon nodded, and gulped, a tear slid down his face. He wiped it away hurriedly and he smiled.

"Hello again April. Glad you made it!"

Illya did not awaken until the early hours of the morning. When he did open his eyes, he found his partner slumped, as ever, in a chair beside the bed. As soon as Illya moved, Napoleon jerked himself awake and grasped his partner's hand.

"Illya?"

Illya nodded.

"Did it work?"

Napoleon nodded.

"You are once again the grumpy, stoic Russian we all love." He said softly. "April woke up yesterday afternoon."

"What time is it?"

"Two-thirty in the morning."

"Is she still here?"

Napoleon shook his head.

"No, Mark's taken her home for a little TLC. He'll bring her back first thing for a check-up. How are you feeling, partner?"

Illya considered.

"Actually, not bad."

"Not tired?"

"Not really, but maybe I ought to try and get some sleep. I think you should too my friend. If April's gone, why don't you take the next bed? It'll be more comfortable than snoozing in the chair."

Napoleon nodded, and squeezed Illya's hand one more time.

"Illya, it is so good to have you back where you belong."

He kicked his shoes off and perched on the edge of the next bed to remove his jacket. Illya turned over to face him and raised himself on his elbow.

"If this had not worked, could you have gotten used to me being female?"

"Of course. You would still be you. My best friend and partner. It might have taken a while, but I'd've got used to it eventually. As you would have."

Illya shook his head.

"No, I do not think I make a very good woman, Napoleon. I might have learned in the end, but I would never be as good a female agent as April is. Do you know she often vomits during her cycle? Can you imagine knowing that two or three days every month you know you are going to be in pain and feeling lousy and vomiting all day, and yet say nothing and still get on and do your job?"

Napoleon grinned.

"You realize that this experience will only serve to make both you and April better people? Perhaps THRUSH did you a favour after all?" He laughed when his partner pulled a face.

"Okay, maybe not. Let's chalk this one down to one of the weirder projects THRUSH has tried out, and just be grateful that it was not as successful as they were hoping. You can imagine what they could have done if it had worked according to their hopes?"

Illya nodded.

"That dotty THRUSH professor was all excited about it. I dread to think how far they could have gone if we hadn't managed to stop them. Well, goodnight my friend."

"Good night Illya."

Seven miles away, in Mark's apartment, he was sitting on his sofa, his eyes half closed, listening to soft music on the radio whilst April stood behind massaging his shoulders for him.

"Oh April, I am so glad you have your own hands back!"

"My own hands? Why? Are they softer or something?"

Mark grinned, shaking his head.

"I dunno luv, I daresay they are, but I didn't dare ask you to do my shoulders for me yesterday. Imagine what the neighbours would've thought, seeing Illya standing there doing what you're doing?"

"You could have told them he was your masseur?"

Mark gave a short, choking laugh.

"Almost as bad! Aw thanks partner, just what I needed. How about you? Ready to take your turn?"

April nodded, sitting in the chair he had just vacated, and swung her hair out of the way.

"This is the life. Thanks Mark. I must say I have missed our de-stressing sessions. Whose turn is it for the sofa tonight?"

"Actually, yours, but you can take the bed this time. As a reward for being you again." He paused, and then turned an impish grin on her.

"I got the impression you quite enjoyed being in Illya's body for a while?"

She grinned, her eyes dreamy.

"Oh yeah…" then she paused, and her eyes looked sad. Mark frowned.

"What's wrong? You're not sad to be yourself again are you?"

"No no no. it isn't that. I just…I lived being in his body at first…I've fancied him since the day he arrived. The thing is…his body is not the same without _him_ in it."

Mark's eyes opened wide.

"So it isn't just his pretty face that you fancy then?"

She shook her head.

"I thought it might have been, but I found out that its him. Illya himself, the man inside."

"Are you going to tell him?"

She shook her head.

"Maybe some day, but not yet. Come on, we'd better get some sleep. Goodnight partner."

Mark watched her enter the bedroom and close the door and smiled to himself.

"…and so we live happily ever after…" he murmured as he snuggled down to sleep.


	22. Chapter 22 The Conspiracy

_**A.N: Please forgive the silliness in this tale, but it wrote itself. I was just trying to keep up!**_

Alexander Waverly held up his hand as his two top men got up to leave the room.

"Just one more thing, Mister Kuryakin. I thought I asked you to get a haircut? I cannot have my agents looking quite so overgrown."

Napoleon fought to suppress a smirk as his partner squirmed uncomfortably.

"I er…I did, sir."

"You did?"

"Yes sir."

"When, pray? Last year?"

"Last month, sir."

"Hmmmph!" Waverly snorted. "Mister Kuryakin, if that haystack on your head gets any longer, I shall ask Miss Rogers to put it into a French pleat for you. Now you have until nine o'clock tomorrow morning to reduce the length of that mop or I will be forced to take drastic measures."

Kuryakin looked mutinous, but Waverly had already turned away and it was clear that as far as he was concerned, the interview was over. His face a flaming red, Kuryakin followed Solo from the room. Once they were out of earshot, Solo let loose the snort of laughter that he had been stifling.

"Illya…"

Illya glared at his partner and held up a finger.

"Don't, Napoleon. Just DON'T!"

He started to walk off down the corridor.

"Where are you going?" Napoleon called after him.

"Where do you think?" came the reply before Illya vanished out of sight.

No one saw anything more of Illya that day, but, as always, the Russian showed up the next morning at Del Floria's exactly on time. Napoleon was waiting for him. He stared at the Russian in surprise.

"Illya…I thought you had taken Mister Waverly seriously yesterday when he told you to get a haircut."

"I did!" Illya replied indignantly. "I had an eighth of an inch removed all over. It looks much neater."

Napoleon caught Del Floria's eye and saw the old man in the act of putting his hand over his face. Napoleon shook his head.

"Illya, are you phobic about getting your haircut or something? It looks exactly the same as it did, my friend. Mister Waverly is not going to be convinced."

But Illya was confident.

"We'll see." He replied with a smile.

Two hours later, Mister Waverly held his daily briefing with his two top agents in his office. He said nothing whatsoever to Illya about his hair, and Illya couldn't wait to get Napoleon alone in order to say "I told you so". As they left, however, Waverly cleared his throat. They paused in the doorway.

"A quick word Mister Solo?"

Illya knew better than to hang around, and he left the room and returned to the office he shared with Napoleon. A few moments later, Napoleon joined him.

"Before we start on our reports up here, we have to report to medical."

Illya frowned.

"Medical? Why?"

Solo shrugged.

"Don't ask me. We'd better get it over with though!"

As they reached the doors to the medical room, Napoleon dropped to one knee in order to retie a shoelace. Illya passed him by and walked inside. Napoleon stood up again in one movement as the chief nurse, Naomie sprayed something into Illya's face and the Russian dropped instantly to the floor. Napoleon caught his partner and carried him gently to an upright armchair.

"He is never going to forgive me for this."

"I know." Naomie replied. "That's why you're getting the same treatment!"

Then Napoleon too was hit with the same spray and instantly blacked out.

Illya woke up with a very bad headache. He blinked and struggled to sit up, trying to remember what had happened to him this time. He blinked. Medical again? What the hell? He looked around and spied his partner on the next bed, still fast asleep. Something was different about Napoleon. It took a few seconds for Illya's drugged brain to catch up, and he let out a giggle.

"Napoleon! Napoleon wake up!"

Napoleon opened his eyes and looked round. They rested on his partner, and opened wide in shock.

"Illya…"

"Napoleon, you look…you…" Helplessly, Illya began to giggle again. Napoleon really did look very funny with a crew cut. Napoleon's hand flew to his head, and he felt the almost velvety sheen of hair, shorter than it had been even in Korea. His eyes closed.

"Illya, I am never going to forgive you for this. Never!"

"What have I done?"

Illya was puzzled at Napoleon's accusatory tone, but he was still giggling like a child. Napoleon grabbed the hand mirror from his bedside and crossed to his partner's bed.

"It isn't funny, Illya. You kept refusing to keep your hair at a reasonable length. You kept letting it grow so long it was drooping over your collar and all over your ears, and you know that Waverly will not tolerate sloppiness like that. He has found a way to make sure that we both toe the line in the future. And believe me, Illya, you are _not_ going to do this to me another time!"

He handed his partner the mirror. Illya stared at himself. His head had been shaven so that his hair was the shortest crew cut possible. With Napoleon's dark hair, it looked acceptable. His own hair was so fine and so blond, that he looked virtually bald. Shining pink scalp could be seen clearly through his hair.

A cascade of emotions crashed over him; predominantly anger and disbelief; then he remembered Waverly's repeated requests for him to cut his hair, or to restyle it so that it at least looked tidy, and the creative ways he had come up with to avoid touching his hair. This time, Waverly had definitely won. He had said yesterday that drastic measures would be taken if Illya refused to do as he was told. He stared ruefully again at the shiny pink scalp that peeped through his teeny weeny short hair. This was certainly drastic.

Napoleon watched incredulously as several different emotions played over Illya's face, before finally the Russian's shoulders started to shake with mirth, tears running down his face. Slowly, Napoleon started to see the funny side, and he started to chuckle.

Twenty minutes later, standing in the viewing gallery with Nurse Naomie and doctor Simpson, Alexander Waverly observed his two agents, both still rolling over the bed, crying with laughter.

"I think they got the point, sir." Naomie said softly, Waverly nodded, suppressing a smile of satisfaction. He thought so too.


	23. Chapter 23 Napoeon's Heart

_What_If? What if Clara had decided to ditch her husband and go back to New York with Napoleon?_

 **Napoleon's Heart**

Illya Kuryakin looked sideways at his partner, as they stood side by side on the roof of the UNCLE building, each cradling a mug of coffee and eating a raspberry doughnut.

"So, my friend, what are you going to do?"

Napoleon shrugged. Clara had been `with' her husband, even in the boat whilst she had been physically cuffed to Napoleon, she had been cradling her husband in her arms. Then what had happened? She had turned up at the last moment and joined the two men on their plane journey back to the U.S.

"I've left him. I love him still, but I love you more, and I lost you once. I'm not losing you a second time." Was all she had said at the time. What she may have said to Napoleon in addition to that when alone, Illya couldn't say.

Napoleon was a man for the ladies, that was no secret; but Illya had not seen his partner quite like this before. He seemed at once gloriously happy, and terribly depressed, and it was clear by the pile of un-signed forms waiting for him in their office, that his mind was in a whirl and his emotions in a turmoil.

When he had first met Clara, Illya had been impressed with her focus, her determination to help her friends; but there his regard ended. She was not his type at all, either in appearance or in demeanour. She was not a woman he would have picked out to be Napoleon's type either, but it was very clear that Napoleon was still very much in love with her. The more so since she was now, apparently, available.

They had returned from Terbuf three weeks ago, and Clara had already started proceedings for divorcing her husband. She had taken a small studio apartment a block away from Illya's, and she and Napoleon were spending a great deal of their time together. Illya could not help but be concerned, and wondered if his friend was thinking with his loins or with his intellect. To say so in so many words, he had decided, would be a big mistake. Illya felt constricted by the fact that if Napoleon decided to go ahead and marry Clara, he would be forced to retire from the field, and Illya would lose his partner. How could he point out the potential hazards without it seeming like so many sour grapes? Was his dislike of this woman due to his own jealousy? The possibility that she could be the one to rip apart the partnership of Solo and Kuryakin, especially when so many THRUSH plots had failed to do just that? Why could he not just be happy for Napoleon?

Feeling himself torn, Illya opted to keep his own counsel. Napoleon had not asked for his input, and he would not offer it. He finished his doughnut with a flourish, licking his fingers then swallowed the last of his coffee. He took a step back.

"I'll be getting back inside. I have some work to finish up in the lab." He said. Napoleon grabbed his elbow before he could move.

"Illya, tell me I am doing the right thing."

A line appeared between the Russian's eyes.

"You have made a decision then?"

"Yes!" a pause, then "No…Oh, I don't know, Illya."

Illya turned turned to face his friend.

"Napoleon, I cannot tell you what to do. You are a man of honour, correct? I do not see you to be a man to walk away from a decision because he realizes it was a mistake. Clara may be able to divorce her husband on a whim, but you are not. If you marry her, then you must be certain that it is what you want."

Napoleon looked frustrated.

"I know that Illya. I know it already. I love her, and I do want to marry her, but I don't want to lose you."

"Napoleon, I will always be your friend. How could you lose me?"

In reality, though, Illya knew exactly what his partner was referring to, but was determined not to allow either of them to use their close partnership as an excuse for anything. If Napoleon were to reject Clara now, on the basis of his partnership with Illya, and then later regretted it, he would blame Illya. Maybe not aloud, but it would eventually come between them. No, Illya was determined that whatever decision Napoleon made, he would make it on his own.

Napoleon looked back across the city.

"She has given up her whole life for me, Illya. How can I tell her "No" now? Illya, I need your clear thinking. I'm lost in a maze here."

Illya sighed.

"Napoleon, this decision will affect your whole life. What will happen to you, to our friendship if you make a decision you later regret based on my counsel?"

"You can point out the hazards to me, Illya. I can't see any, but I know that there must be some. I have come to rely on your ability to anticipate every possibility. I need you for that. You're the only one who will tell me the exact truth as he sees it. That is what I need, my friend."

Illya closed his eyes in resignation.

"Are you certain you want _my_ perspective on this?"

Napoleon nodded. Illya breathed deeply and looked his friend in the eye.

"Very well Napoleon. Ignoring personal issues which are likely to prove distracting, this is what I see. First, she tells you she is in love with you and wants to marry you. You love her just as much, but you chose instead to dedicate your life to fighting evil and corruption, and THRUSH, in particular. You chose UNCLE. Clara was forced to accept that for you, UNCLE came first. That was why she eventually left and married her husband."

Napoleon nodded, listening intently. Illya thought, arranging his words as carefully as he could.

"Very well. As I see it you need to ask yourself a few basic questions. One: Clara knows that your primary focus has always been UNCLE. It was before, and at least until your paths crossed again, it was still. Why do you think she feels that your convictions will have changed in the last few years? Will you be happy living the life she will have you live? The second thing my friend, and I am sorry to have to point it out to you, but if she was willing to just walk out on her marriage to be with you, what gives you the confidence she would not walk out on you when she meets someone else?"

Napoleon looked glum.

"Can you see _any_ positives, Illya?"

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"For you, yes. But you don't need me to point those out. It is a tough decision, Napoleon, but one only you can make. Only you know how you feel about her, how much you trust her…and I _do_ trust your judgment, my friend."

"Do you like her, Illya?"

Illya did not reply, but the look in his eyes told Napoleon more than he knew. Illya made to walk away and paused.

"Napoleon, I think your main problem is the feeling that you have to make a choice between us. Her or me, right?"

Napoleon dropped his eyes. That was it in a nutshell. Illya's hand rested on his shoulder briefly, and he looked up at a pair of eyes as blue as the summer sky.

"Napoleon, you decide how much you love her, and make the right decision for you. I give you my word that you will never lose me. Ever."

The blond hair glinted in the sun and the blue eyes that so often bore through one like gimlets softened, and Illya flashed a brief smile, and walked away.

Napoleon watched his amazing partner as he disappeared inside, and long after Illya had disappeared, Napoleon's eyes stayed focused at the place they had seen him last.

Despite what Illya had said, it really did boil down to who he loved the most. To marry Clara would mean leaving Illya in the field without a partner, or with someone else. Someone less experienced. And let's face it, Illya took quite some looking after. Could he live with himself to see his best friend die because he wasn't there to rescue him?

He thought of last night, the love in Clara's eyes as she had gazed at him, the emotions no longer hidden beneath a veil of duty. She had loved her husband, but not like this. This was deep, true love, rather than the love of friendship and respect that she had had for _him_. Which was stronger? Truth to tell, when Napoleon arrived home after a mission, the times when Illya was not there, he was lonely. He would look around at his empty apartment, and he knew that deep down, he was lonely. He needed something…some _one_. This would not be an easy choice to make.

Napoleon rested his elbows on the wall, resting his chin on his arms and gazed thoughtfully across the city. Searching his heart, trying to make a choice. The right choice. The choice he would be able to live with.

Finally, as the sun started to sink, huge and red below the horizon, Napoleon made his choice. He turned and headed for the stairwell, and his office. Illya should still be there…


	24. Chapter 24 Saying Goodbye

Illya glanced worriedly at his partner. He had spoken very little all day. He had received the telephone call at headquarters, and his face had turned as **_white_** as a sheet. Illya had immediately feared for him, wondering what had happened.

Napoleon had spoken to Mister Waverly, something urgent had come up and he had to leave town right away, and Waverly had agreed. Illya had requested leave to join his partner, because Napoleon had never looked like that before. Napoleon's tanned complexion, and his cheerful smile were all so constant and familiar, it was as if they were painted on. This Napoleon looked…Illya was at a loss to find a word in English to describe it, because _shocked_ seemed too inadequate. _Shattered_ might have come closer. Waverly seemed almost relieved to let Illya go along with him. Clearly, Napoleon's unnaturally pale features were worrying him too.

Napoleon had shown no surprise when Illya informed him that he would be coming along. He had merely nodded and opened the car door for him as automatically as if Illya had been a female. It took no more than twenty minutes of observation for Illya to surmise that they were driving to Napoleon's home.

"What has happened, my friend?"

Napoleon had not responded, and Illya had been unwilling to push him. Napoleon would talk when he was ready, or not at all. Whatever happened, Illya would be there when he needed him. He could sit in the car and wait if his partner needed privacy with his family. To his surprise, however, they turned off the freeway ten miles before they would have if they had been heading for the Solo Farm.

Illya glanced at his partner silently. Napoleon's face was, if possible, paler still, and grim, and Illya noticed that Napoleon's hands had started to **_shake_** slightly.

"Napoleon, when we arrive at our destination, you must tell me if you wish me to wait here in the car."

Napoleon started, as though he had forgotten that Illya was there. And he shook his head.

"Illya." He said, his voice sounding strained. "Sorry, I've been…look, thank you for coming. I would appreciate it if you would come inside with me…"

Illya nodded and said no more. He watched as Napoleon pulled into a wide driveway, and recognized it as a private hospital. Napoleon parked the car and Illya followed him into the main entrance. He noted how the receptionist greeted him by name. Napoleon nodded in response and headed down an adjacent corridor, Illya following a few steps behind.

They entered a large, airy room filled with a single bed and a lot of equipment. Some of the machines were attached in some way to the individual lying in the bed. Illya stood inside the door. The figure in the bed moved slightly, and Napoleon was there in an instant. Knelt beside the bed and took a weak hand in his own.

"John, it's me. I'm here."

"'Poleon? S'you?"

"It's me John. How are you doing?"

"You were nearly too late, 'Poleon. You were always late."

"Nothing changes, my friend."

Napoleon glanced back towards the door, where Illya stood silently, his face full of compassion. He waved an inclusive arm, to beckon Illya to come closer.

"John, this is Illya."

The elderly man in the bed looked at the newcomer and held out his hand. Illya took it gently, and crouched by Napoleon's side.

"Illya Kuryakin. Is good to meet you, sir."

Napoleon, still feasting his eyes on the old man, spoke in a low voice.

"Illya, this is John Freeman. He was my first official partner at UNCLE. He taught me…everything. He saved my life many times in the field."

John smiled weakly.

"Saving`Poleon's life is a full-time job in itself. You are his partner?"

Illya nodded and John glanced at Napoleon.

"Can you get my notebook, son? On the nightstand?"

Napoleon reached for John's coveted little red book and to his surprise, John handed it to Illya.

"This is my record of my time in the field with `Poleon. All my tricks are in there, Most of my secrets. If you want your partnership to last a long time, you will find it useful."

Highly honoured, Illya took the book, his face flushed.

"I am honoured. Thank-you, John. I will study it well."

John nodded and turned his gaze back to Napoleon. When he spoke, it was evident that he was getting very much weaker.

"I know you were hoping to get that book, son, but your partner will need it more than you. I don't know if there is a heaven, or what the truth of eternity will be, but whatever it is, I don't want you joining me until you are an old man like me. Goodbye son."

Illya crossed to the other side of the bed and took the old man's other hand and held it enwrapped in his own. The old man managed a weak smile, and then closed his eyes. Napoleon kissed the old man's hand, and then his forehead, his eyes damp.

"Goodbye, old friend. Sleep well. I will miss you."

The two sat silently, watching the old man sleeping, listening his increasingly feeble breathing, until, sometime later, the gentle rise and fall of his chest stopped. Napoleon gazed up at Illya, who checked the elderly man's neck for a pulse, then shook his head.

"I am so sorry, my friend. He is gone."

In the car, a little while later, Napoleon turned red-rimmed eyes on his partner.

"Thank you for coming, Illya."

"He seemed like a remarkable old man."

"He was like a father to me, Illya. I will miss that old man so much."

"I wish I could have known him."

Napoleon smiled at his friend.

"Perhaps that is why he gave you his book. He is in there. Read it and you will learn about him."

Illya smiled.

"I think we should read this book together."


	25. Chapter 25 The More I know You

**What if** **April and Illya were partners, Napoleon and Mark best buds and partners.**

 **THE MORE I KNOW YOU**

It had seemed to April as though she had been waiting forever. She had been through one temporary partner after another; agents on temporary transfer, or whose own partners were on leave. She suspected though, that the truth of the matter was that despite Mister Waverly's high praise of her abilities and her intelligence, he had been having difficulty finding a partner for her that firstly, would be a good fit, and secondly, was willing to be partnered with a girl.

When he called her into his office and told her that her permanent partnership had been decided and finalized, she had been both delighted and apprehensive. Then he revealed her new partner's identity, and her heart had done a double flip.

Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin.

He had already spoken to Mister Kuryakin it seemed, because the Russian had had to rush away to a meeting in lieu of Mister Solo whom was still away on assignment with his partner. She had had a secret crush on Kuryakin since the first moment she had laid eyes on him, and knowing her place and her role, had been severe with herself for acting like a schoolgirl. The upshot was that on the few occasions their paths had crossed, she had been brisk with him. Not that he had noticed.

Kuryakin had been, like herself, floating around the New York office for over a year, unable to find and keep a partner. He excelled at everything he did, and many of those whom had fallen by the wayside had done so because they had simply been unable to keep up.

Then there was the man's personality. He might have a great sense of humour or an engaging laugh, but if so, April had seen no sign of it.

He remained straight-faced and slightly dour-looking all the time, especially when he was concentrating on his work; and no one had ever reported being in a position to see him in a relaxed atmosphere. None of the girls at HQ had succeeded in getting a date with him, even though they would all have given a months' pay for the opportunity.

Only one man at HQ had seemed to have any success in penetrating the frosty Russian's protective shell, and that was Illya's immediate superior, the CEA Napoleon Solo.

As Illya was the Number 2 operative, he was the one who took over the running of section two when Slate and Solo were away on assignment, or on sick-leave; and therefore, he and Napoleon were frequently in conference together, sharing information and making plans on deployments.

April was not alone in believing that had Waverly chosen to partner Solo with the Russian, they would have got on, as they say, like a house on fire. But in the end, Slate was the one chosen, and he and Napoleon were thick as thieves together. She had simply hoped that she and Illya would get on okay, and be able to cooperate. She had not had much more hope than that at first, because she had been as much in awe of him as everyone else.

Little had she known!

She recalled their first day as official partners in every single detail. After returning to HQ following his meeting, Illya had approached her table in the commissary, and removing those awful dark glasses he always wore, asked her if he could sit.

 _"Of course, Mister Kuryakin. You're very welcome."_

 _He smiled a shy little smile…she had seen that smile only once before. He dumped his tray on the table and sat down._

 _"Mister Waverly has informed me that you and I are to become partners. He says that we would be a good fit." He looked up shyly at her and the smile briefly returned. "I am inclined to agree with him."_

 _April was surprised._

 _"Really? That's great! I mean…" suddenly unsure if she had given herself away, she turned pink and cleared her throat._

 _"It would seem to make sense. We both seemed doomed to working alone. The scary Russian and the Girl. It makes sense to put us together."_

 _Illya choked on his soup and had to take a drink of water._

 _"What was that you called me?_ Scary _Russian?"_

 _He was actually chuckling appreciatively at the thought of being called scary. April was watching, and somehow the only thought going through her mind was how pretty he looked, when he smiled or laughed._

 _"Does everybody see me that way Miss Dancer, or are you the only one?"_

 _April couldn't help but smile back._

 _"I don't know about all…but I would say most people see you that way. If we are now partners, by the way, you had better call me April."_

 _"Illya. Do_ you _think I am scary, partner?"_

 _"Are you going to eat that dinner before it gets cold?"_

 _"It is a salad. It is supposed to be cold._ Do _you think I am scary?"_

 _"Well, eat it before it gets warm then."_

 _"_ I am _eating it. Why won't you answer my question?"_

 _She grinned at him, suddenly seeing him in a new light._

 _"When you know me well, you will have your answer. I would like to ask you one question though."_

 _He looked up at the serious tone of voice, and nodded thoughtfully._

 _"You are wondering why I did not object to being partnered with you, being as you are female, correct?"_

 _"Bingo."_

 _"I have observed you in action in the gym, in the firing range, and on occasion, in the field. Also, as deputy CEA, I get to see the mission reports, and sign off on them whenever Mister Solo is unavailable. In fact, I have on occasion been asked to complete his paperwork for him…I have had the chance to read some of your reports. You are a very good agent and one would be a fool to refuse to partner you based on your gender."_

 _April nodded, unsure what to say. It all sounded so very precise and clinical. Very much the scientific appraisal she had half come to expect from Agent Kuryakin. Then, he floored her with his next remark, so offhand, almost casual;_

 _"Also, I like you."_

And so, they had begun working missions together. As she got to know him, she realized how little everyone else knew the real man behind the frosty façade. On the surface, certainly, he was the fearsome, awe-inspiring agent that managed to intimidate most of the staff at HQ, an expert at hand to hand combat with a veritable mouthful of languages; but she learned he was so much more than that.

She had observed her partner's anger over the injustice they encountered, watched him tenderly pick up a weeping child with the gentleness of a loving father, and spend a long hour comforting him until the mother had been found.

When she was scratched by a stray THRUSH bullet, his gentleness in binding up her wound and attention to detail showed his concern without his having to say a word; and when she wept at the senseless murder of the innocent wife of a THRUSH captain, she had been comforted by her partner, who hugged her until she stopped trembling, and whose quick, slightly shaky breaths in her ear gave away his own distress.

No, the scary Russian was all on the surface. She suspected even Napoleon Solo did not see what only she was privileged to see. The man beneath the mask. The kind, caring and surprisingly vulnerable Illya that he kept carefully hidden from everyone but her.

Within a few weeks, Illya had learned her entire life story from the day she was born, and had even met some of her immediate family members.

She, on the other hand, had learned very little about his background. He revealed the odd tidbit now and then, but these atomic particles of information served rather to intensify and feed her interest and curiosity rather than satisfy it. Curiously, though, she found that she did not resent his reticence. The little she _had_ gleaned had been enough to make her realize that his refusal to talk about his past had more to do with survival than secrecy or privacy.

Their being male and female made undercover operations a cinch in comparison to some partnerships. Being able to pose as a married couple, honeymooners, siblings or colleagues, boss and secretary; the possibilities they found were almost endless.

Celebrating the anniversary of the first month of their very successful partnership, they found themselves deciding to celebrate in privacy. Illya had grinned at her.

"A celebratory dinner is a good idea April, but for a change, allow _me_ to cook for you."

A delighted grin caught the edge of her mouth before she managed to suppress it.

"You can cook!?"

"April, a man such as I who enjoys his food could not be truly happy if he could not cook!"

"Sorry, it's just I never imagined you wearing an apron! Thanks partner, that would be great. I'll bring the wine…and vodka!"

She had been interested to see what sort of apartment he lived in. She had seen the inside of Napoleon's apartment during a dinner-party, and the by-word had been _luxurious._

Mark Slate's apartment was comfortable and practical, clearly designed by someone who intended to spend as little time as possible cooking and cleaning. Would Illya veer towards the luxurious? Surely not. Practicality then, like Mark's place?

To her surprise, she found Illya's apartment was simple and elegant. He had few soft furnishings. Carpets made way for stone tiles. The walls were painted light green, the windows screened by black blinds, but no curtains. No sofa, but two black leather armchairs sat either side of a long haired, very fluffy thick white rug with a comfortable looking black and white cat curled up asleep on it, before an open fireplace that had been redesigned to hold nothing more than a vase of flowers. The mantel held a brass Russian Samovar teapot with an ebony handle, with two matching stacking cups beside it, and a photograph of a handsome dark haired young woman with a two year old child in her arms, a little boy with white-blond hair and startlingly blue eyes.

The room was otherwise empty, save for a black stained wooden dinner table with two chairs, and two large bulky looking cases that were obviously musical instruments. April could not guess what they could have been.

His kitchen was rather sparse. Little in the way of gadgets or conveniences, but his oven was clearly brand new.

He cooked for her a number of Russian dishes, and watched with a knowing grin as she tentatively, then enthusiastically tried each one. When they had finished, they sat in the armchairs, drinks in hand. April gestured to the photo on the mantel.

"Illya, can I ask…who are they in the photograph?"

Illya picked it up briefly, and smiled down longingly at the picture.

"Sorry my friend…I am not ready to talk about them just yet. People I…"

April watched in sympathy as he swallowed something, then replaced the picture. She refrained from apologizing for her question, knowing that would only make him feel more uncomfortable, and her attention was drawn once again to the two bulky cases in the corner of the room.

"Illya, I have been staring at those cases all evening and I have to ask... _what are they_?"

"The larger one is a cello, the other is my grandfather's balalaika."

"You play?"

At his nod, she looked impressed.

"You know Illya, you hide so much of yourself at headquarters. If everyone knew you as I have come to know you…"

"…my life would become more complicated."

"And yet you were surprised when you learned that people think you are scary."

He grinned.

"Well, I have never thought about it. I've never tried to be scary or intimidating. It's just me. Now, are you going to answer _my_ question, partner, and tell me whether you too believed that I was scary?"

April burst out laughing.

"Are you still thinking about that? What does that amazingly bright brain of yours surmise?"

"I think you were." Illya replied with a grin. "I think that is why you were always snappy with me before we were partnered. It wasn't snappiness. You were nervous."

"Oh no, that was…" April began and stopped herself before she said too much. She caught Illya's astonished eye on her and groaned. She could see the light of illumination hit him as clearly as though switching on a light.

"April…tell me the truth!"

"No."

"You promised to always tell the truth to your partner. That is me, in case you have forgotten."

"No!"

"April, if you don't tell, I will tickle you until you scream for mercy!"

"Try it Kuryakin, and see who loses!"

"You will. I'm not ticklish."

April grinned impishly.

" _I_ think you are. We'll soon see, won't we?"

As the sun went down, April Dancer and her partner Illya Kuryakin engaged in the first of what would, over the years, become a running battle for supremacy…which of them would be the first to scream for mercy in a barrage of tickling…


	26. Chapter 26 The Moonglow Affect

It was all around the office. The two hot shots, senior agents Solo and Kuryakin had failed catastrophically in their last mission, and had been in the hospital for several days recovering. Their **failure** loomed ever greater over them, as the two agents sent in to take their place, junior agent Mark Slate and rookie April Dancer had cleared up the whole thing quickly. The Moonglow Affair, as it had been dubbed, had proven that a female agent had a very definite place at UNCLE. The ill-fated THRUSH attempt to sabotage the American and Russian space programs had been iced, and the villains captured.

Sitting up in their hospital beds, side by side, both Napoleon and Illya wore almost identical gloomy expressions. The relief that the mission had been saved was not in any way helped by the knowledge that it had been a rookie agent that had saved their bacon. Waverly raised his eyebrows at them at seeing their twin reactions at his news.

"I thought you would both be happy to know that The Moonglow Affair has been cleared up satisfactorily."

"Yes, we are sir. Very pleased indeed." Solo tried, and almost managed to look sincere. Kuryakin did not even deign to look up at his boss. He remained staring straight ahead, a **black** look on his face.

"Yes sir. Ecstatic!" he replied with no attempt to hide the sarcasm. Waverly's mouth twitched and he coughed to cover a slight laugh.

"Gentlemen, I would think you two would not be quite so piqued that someone else succeeded where you failed. No one is infallible you know."

"So we have discovered." Solo glanced up at Waverly, and then across at Illya, and suddenly he gave a rueful grin.

"I guess neither of us is accustomed to failure, sir. I am glad Mark and April succeeded though…especially in finding that antidote…perhaps we should thank them when we get out of here."

Waverly nodded in satisfaction.

"That's more like it. Slate and Dancer are at the other end of the corridor, waiting. I will send them in to visit you, and you can congratulate them in person."

When he was gone, Illya glanced darkly at his partner. Solo met his look with a grin.

"Well you have to admit it Illya, we did both fall flat on our faces with this one. But we still helped, anyway."

Illya looked very disbelieving.

"Really? And how does getting ourselves landed in hospital help?"

"Slate and Dancer had a better idea of what they were up against before they went in. They were better prepared and were able to come up with a plan. When we went in, we were fumbling in the dark after all."

The door opened and Illya looked up, and then back at Napoleon.

"Well then partner, here's your chance to tell them. Have fun. I'm going to sleep!"


	27. Chapter 27 Acting Upon Information

"Napoleon, what do you see in that vixen? You remember she tried to kill you with a poisonous spider? If I had not arrived when I did…"

Napoleon sighed. This was an age-old argument. Illya Kuryakin's antipathy towards Angelique knew no bounds. As a rule, Illya kept his thoughts very much to himself, even when it came to Napoleon's dalliances with Angelique, but this time his irritation had spilled over yet again. And to be fair, Napoleon thought, he had good reason to be annoyed. Their scheduled meeting was for three o'clock precisely, and because the blond THRUSH `vixen' had turned up out of the blue, Napoleon had arrived seven minutes late, resulting in a broken nose for the unfortunate Illya, who had arrived back at headquarters, the package safely retrieved, but otherwise covered in blood.

"Vixen…hmmm. You're not wrong there my friend. She is one foxy lady…"

Illya growled and Napoleon smiled cautiously.

"I'm sorry, Illya, but sometimes it pays to have contacts in the enemy camp. Even dangerous contacts like her. She has saved our lives remember. She rescued us from that satrap in Cleveland…"

"That rescue was a trap!"

"Yes, but we avoided it."

"You're playing with fire Napoleon, and one day..."

"One day never comes. Besides, I have you to cover my back, don't I? Look, I have to go. I have a meeting with Mister Waverly in three minutes."

Napoleon left his partner in sickbay, being tended by the competent Nurse Jenny Witt, and hurried up to Waverly's office. The old man waved him to a seat and pressed a button inside his desk. Immediately the doors and windows were locked, and sealed, the blinds that unfolded from the ceiling latched themselves together forming a soundproof barrier.

"How is Mister Kuryakin?"

"Nose broken, sir. I was late getting to our pick-up point, and Illya found he had competition from a couple of THRUSH thugs. He is really angry with me this time, sir. Isn't it time we let him in on Operation Foxy?"

Waverly shook his head.

"The more people who know about this, the more danger she is in. It is best that we leave things as they are. You will just have to find some other way of making things up to your partner."

Napoleon nodded, sucking his teeth unhappily.

"The next time something like this happens, he will probably shoot me himself. Or request a different partner. It's a shame too, sir. Angelique quite likes Illya. She has the same enquiring mind that he has. They could have hours of fun in the library together."

"Be that as it may, let us get down to business. Her report if you please."

Napoleon produced a micro-dot from his pocket and handed it over.

"She says it contains copies of the plans for THRUSH'S latest weapon. They have enlisted the aid of a French scientist called Professor Arnaud L'Amereau, to perfect it."

"What sort of weapon is it?"

"A miniaturizer, according to Angelique."

He sat back and pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. Waverly frowned.

"What is it? What else did she tell you?"

"Two things, sir. First that the next time she has something for us, she is going to have to hand us…or one of us at least, over to THRUSH, in order to maintain her cover. They are willing to put up with her…apparently dangerous game with me because she is so efficient. But…"

Waverly nodded.

"It will have to be you she brings in then. That will not increase your credibility with your partner where Angelique is concerned. What else? You said two things?"

"Yes, sir. THRUSH have been receiving messages from UNCLE Berlin for the last three months or so. She believes that there is a traitor there. Someone quite important, she believes."

"Damn. That will need investigating, and carefully too."

Napoleon nodded.

"And your Summit Five meeting scheduled soon, sir."

"Yes. I think Mister Solo, I had better send you to Berlin to undertake an independent security check. See what you can turn up. Contact me if you need help and I will send Mister Kuryakin to assist you. make your preparations and leave in two days. That should give our THRUSH agent time to retreat and cover herself sufficiently before we act on her information. We will make Mister Kuryakin our code man if…"

He broke off with a meaningful look, and Napoleon nodded.

"Very well Mister Waverly. It looks as if I am off to Berlin…"


	28. Chapter 28 A shoulder to cry on

I had been watching her for the last couple of hours. She seemed, on the surface at least, exactly as normal, but I am her partner. I think I can say I know April Dancer better than anyone else at UNCLE. Perhaps her eyes were gleaming a little more than usual? Perhaps she was distracted, preoccupied with something I was not privy to; some problem she had not shared?

It bothered me, because April is a force of nature. To see her so withdrawn saddened and worried me. I had to pick my moment though, and for much of the day we were not alone. Not at liberty to discuss anything other than the security detail we had been assigned to.

All right, a job for one of the other divisions within UNCLE, you may say, but we have recently had a nasty flu going around, and with fifteen agents from sections three and four all off sick with this same nasty bug, to say nothing of three section twos also stricken, some of the more routine tasks are having to be shared out among those of us whom are left. Therefore, whilst Napoleon was flat on his back, suffering from the worst case of flu ever to hit mortal man (apparently), his partner was working his socks off trying to get fifty different important tasks completed with only two thirds of the regularly available personnel. April and I he dispatched to take charge of the security team guarding the hospital where Waverly is currently incarcerated. Waverly was the latest victim of the flu epidemic; but doctor Towers, on consideration of Waverly's age and position, decided to err on the side of caution. On that account, Waverly was being well cared for in the securest wing of the hospital, and in between bouts of coughing and vomiting, complaining and arguing most vociferously that he would have been quite all right recovering at home, thank you very much.

Probably he is right at that. It is rarely that Mister Waverly succumbs to any sort of malady, and it would be a very brave virus or germ that stuck around once Mrs. Waverly was on the job. I did not envy Kuryakin his job one bit. I was seriously hoping that Kuryakin would not come down with this flu himself, because yours truly would be the next in line to take over the running of the office. A responsible enough job when we were fully staffed, but with people dropping like flies all around, and THRUSH still pushing hard?

All the same, I was not convinced that it was the fear of my taking charge that was making April look so forlorn. It was not until Beavers and Cannel took over our watch, and we were free to go home and get some well-earned rest, that we had the chance to talk.

Outside, the wind was **raw** and bitter, and we wrapped our arms tightly around ourselves to try and keep out the cold. April was wearing her wooly hat, a big blue crocheted thing with a pom-pom in the top that I loved seeing her wearing. The wind sent her pom-pom dancing, and it chuckled at the sight. I ran my hand over my bare head.

"I should have brought my cap, but…"

"You hate wearing that thing."

I nodded.

"I know, but it _is_ warm…April…did _you_ make that hat of yours?"

She shook her head.

"No, my crochet skills are not this good. My aunt made it for me a few years ago. Do you like it?"

I nodded.

"I love it. I love the pom-pom, and the colour suits you. I could do with one like that in black or **brown**."

"Blue would suit you, Mark. Go better with the colour of your eyes."

I grinned.

"Yes, and we would look very noticeable walking down the street in identical wooly hats. Like some elderly couple."

She chuckled, and I was relieved to hear it. I had not heard her laugh or seen her smile all day, and I'd missed it.

"April, is everything alright? You seem so unhappy today. In fact, you've not been yourself for a couple of days."

April shrugged, and as we'd reached our car, I opened the door for her and sat her in the passenger seat, even though she often liked to be the one to drive. Once beside her with the door closed, I tried again.

"April, I know something is wrong. I'm your partner, and I want to help if I can."

April gave a sudden loud sniff, which shocked me, as it was clearly her way of repressing an unexpected sob. I took her hands.

"Hey, I'm here. Here's a hanky if you need it, but my shoulder is bigger…"

She gave a start that was half a laugh and half a sob, and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

"Sorry Mark, I know I should have said something to you before, but I…Do you remember that wedding I was invited to a while ago, and you couldn't come because you had to go to China with Napoleon?"

I nodded. I remembered well, as it had been on our return from China that events had started to unfold that had led to Napoleon and Illya faking their deaths and going deep undercover in Russia*. April gave me a wan smile.

"It was my brother Charlie. Charlie married to my best friend from school Marilyn Hayward. Well, four days ago, I had a call from him, telling me that she had left him, taken the baby and as their money had all been in a double account, she had emptied it and taken the lot. All he had left is the house they were living in, and her father owns that."

I won't repeat my comment at that, but suffice it to say April gave me a grateful little smile, then a sob emerged.

"How is Charlie coping?" I asked her, fearful of the reply. She looked at me, tears in her eyes.

"He's not." She replied. "Last night my father came round to tell me that Charlie is…that he…"

"He hasn't gone and…?"

April stared at me for a moment, startled, then shook her head.

"No, no... well…he tried, but he was found in time. He's in hospital. Mark, I can't believe what that creature did to him! She was my best friend all the way through school. I introduced them to each other! How come I never saw that she was like that? How could she do that to Charlie? He is the kindest soul in the world!"

I put my arm around her.

"She probably wasn't like that before. People do change sometimes. Anyway partner, we have a secret weapon that your ex-friend does not have."

"What? Not UNCLE? Mister Waverly would never agree to us…"

I put on my best innocent face.

"We don't have to take any kind of action, do we? We have the resources to find where she has run off to…we could give her a bit of a shock…let her know that her secret is out…I'm sure Napoleon would be able to come up with something deliciously sneaky to teach that woman a lesson."

April started to smile.

"So long as no harm comes to her…I'm thinking about the baby."

I nodded.

"Don't worry about that. Napoleon and Illya have the corner on the market when it comes to sneaky. What do you think about us taking our sneaky Russian boss out for a drink tonight, and running it past him? I'm sure he'd be up for a little rule-bending in the interests of justice."

April thumped my arm and nodded.

"Let's do it. Thanks Mark. I do feel better for having talked about it. I guess Illya will be ready for a drink after work, with the week he's having. Let's go.!"

*Reference to my story The Lake of Tears Affair


	29. Chapter 29 Choices

**What if Pia and Napoleon had actually gotten married?**

 **Before . . .**

"Well sir, she is my wife now, regardless of the circumstances, and if I do nothing else for her, I have to see that she is all right. She is an innocent in all of this, sir!"

Waverly glared at his CEA.

"Wife? What kind of trouble will you get into next Mister Solo? You realize you are setting up Mister Kuryakin to be your successor?"

Solo shook his head as patiently as he could.

"Not if you don't let me go and rescue them, sir. Illya was taken too. He's going to be as dead as Pia when the island goes up!"

"Very well. We will discuss this wedding of yours upon your return."

That made Solo pause.

"It was not my choice, sir. They had me at gunpoint. They were concerned for Pia's reputation. For some reason, they would not believe that I am a gentleman."

Solo could see his boss stifling a smirk.

"Go Mister Solo, and be quick. That missile goes off on schedule. If you are still there…"

Solo nodded, and started to run . . .

 **After . . .**

As the boat sped away from the island, Illya lay exhausted on the sofa in the cabin. He would have given his last penny for his usual talent of sleeping anytime and anywhere, but this time sleep eluded him. His mind refused to let go of the anger, pain and humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Miss Diketon. The injuries she had caused him still smarted badly. The fact that she was dead gave him no solace. He groaned as he rolled over. No doubt he would be in for another period of forever in the hands of the psyche department when they got back. Right now, all he wanted was rest, but still his mind would not let go…

Napoleon Solo sat hunched in the bows of the boat, watching the reflections of the stars as they danced across the water. Pia's uncles, the Stilletto brothers were handling the boat competently without him, and Pia was busily serving hot drinks to them as they steered the boat, reveling in their victory. He turned his back on them and stared resolutely out to sea. A soft hand touched his back and he wanted to snap and demand to be left alone with his thoughts. He forced himself to turn and acknowledge the young woman with a silent nod, the most he could manage.

"Cocoa?"

She handed him a mug of hot coca that steamed invitingly. Almost grudgingly he accepted the cup and looked forward once again.

"You are not happy at your victory over Strago and his wicked plans?"

"Yes, of course."

Even to him his voice sounded slightly strangled. He felt rather than saw Pia nod beside him.

"You are angry with me."

Her voice sounded so desolate, that he was instantly repentant. She was, after all, just as innocent in this as he was himself. She had not asked him to come to her for help in the middle of the night, and regardless of the consequences, she had helped him. She was not to blame for the understandable outrage of her family. In fact, if he was completely honest with himself, he could not really blame Pia's family either. Nothing had happened. That was fact. But the fact was also true that a strange man had spent the night alone with Pia in her bedroom. What would he believe in their place? And even if they did believe him, the neighbours would not when they heard of it, and Pia's reputation would still be ruined. He turned towards her and gave her a smile.

"Did you have a young man at home that you were interested in?"

She smiled, but shook her head.

"No, they are all afraid of my family. I was always going to marry someone they chose for me. No one else would have the nerve to ask."

He looked down at her hands, resting lightly on her lap. Despite everything that had happened, she did not seem nervous in any way. She was relaxed.

"So, what about you, Senor Solo? Did you have someone else you wanted to marry?"

Napoleon shook his head, and took her hands in his own.

"It appears that you and I are married to each other yes?"

At her nod, he gently took her chin and kissed her cheek.

"Then you need not call me Senor Solo. My name is Napoleon. And the answer to your question is no." he smiled sadly at her. "I am a field agent for UNCLE. At least I _was_. Field agents are not permitted to marry."

She stared at him, alarm growing on her face.

"So, what will happen to you, now you are married to me?"

"Unless they are willing to make an exception in my case, I will have to leave my job. They'll stick me in an office, behind a desk."

Pia thought about all that this handsome man had accomplished. He had come after her to rescue her and his friend from those bad people, and he had united with her uncles, men he had reason to mistrust and dislike, and they had succeeded. He was alive and energetic and clever. A man who seemed to live for excitement. A man like this would die sitting in an office. Not literally perhaps, but he would die inside. She kissed his forehead and walked away, leaving him to his thoughts. Napoleon watched her go, disquieted at the sudden realization that the boat seemed slightly colder and emptier, now that she had walked away.

 **And Finally . . .**

When the boat landed on shore, Napoleon gave Pia some money, instructing her to book into a hotel overnight, buy herself a change of clothes and come to New York two days from now when they would be reunited. The hotel bill, he assured her, would be taken care of by UNCLE. He and Illya caught a plane to New York and, still having had no sleep or time to change their clothes, they reported to Mister Waverly. He looked at them ruefully.

"So, you really did get yourselves into a pickle this time Mister Solo."

Solo hung his head.

"I don't know what to say sir. Nothing happened between me and Pia. She saved me from those THRUSH goons, that's all, but I can't blame her family for not believing it."

"So, this was a literal shotgun wedding?"

Illya smirked beside him and Solo felt his mouth twitch.

"Yes, sir. I don't want to leave section two, sir. I would be useless behind a desk, but I can't just dump Pia like an old shoe can I, sir?"

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"She knows that I cannot be married and still be a field agent."

"What did she say when you told her?"

"Nothing, sir. She walked away. I think she felt…rejected…?"

Waverly nodded.

"Quite understandable. Well Mister Solo. Do you care about Miss Monteri?"

"Of course, sir. She is a beautiful and caring girl."

"Would you choose to divorce her? Or remain her husband?"

Solo put his head in his hands.

"I couldn't divorce her, sir. She has done nothing wrong. Our marriage is not even…consummated, sir. I said `I do' at the point of a gun. It surely cannot be even legal? But even so, I can't help feeling sorry for Pia, sir."

Waverly waved his pipe.

"Yes, yes, Mister Solo, I am aware of all of that. Do you really think that I have been idle these past few days? You have options here, but you might be better to wait and speak to your wife before deciding. We can arrange for your marriage to be annulled. There is ample basis for that. In return for the cooperation and agreement of the Stilletto brothers, we can arrange for Miss Pia and her grandmamma to move here to be with the rest of their family. We can set the young woman up in a small business of her own. The alternative is that we might be prepared to make an exception in your case to the no marriage rule. You remain married to the young woman and remain in section two. The catch is that her life will be in danger from THRUSH. The only way to offset that would be for her to live permanently under UNCLE protection."

Napoleon shook his head.

"They would all hate that."

"Or you can remain married to her and negate the danger by retiring as a field agent. You would still be CEA, but office-bound."

Solo nodded, and with a uncharacteristic stoop of his shoulders, he left the office. Waverly glanced at Illya.

"He is not accustomed to not knowing what to do, Mister Kuryakin, but his heart will move him to do the right thing in this case. So, what about you?"

"I will be fine, sir. I'm not married."

Waverly raised his eyebrows and Illya shrugged.

"I have not enjoyed this assignment, sir. I have been beaten, electrocuted, spat at, insulted, hung, almost drowned…and I have not slept in more than three days. I consider that Mister Solo has got off lightly sir, under the circumstances."

Waverly nodded.

"Go straight down to medical, Mister Kuryakin. I will call ahead and tell them to expect you."

Kuryakin nodded and headed for the door. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, but Waverly thought he might just make it. He picked up the telephone.

It was evening of the following day. Illya had finally had a long sleep, thanks to medical, and he made his way up to the office he shared with his partner. He found Napoleon sitting with a letter in his hand, tears on his cheeks.

"What is wrong my friend?"

Wordlessly, Napoleon handed over the letter in his hand. Illya opened it and read;

"My husband,

You will forgive me for calling you husband, just this one time, because I do like the sound of it. I have been so upset ever since our conversation on the boat, because you have been put through a lot of trouble on my account, and I do not consider that you have deserved any of it. You and I both know that nothing happened between us in that room, and that is all that matters. Why should your whole life be turned upside down because of me?

It was perhaps understandable why grandmamma reacted the way she did, but she is still living in the last century. In her world, a girl must become engaged if she so much as is kissed by a man anywhere but on the back of the hand.

I will not beat around the bush. I was happy with my place, and I was not in a rush to marry. I would be happy to remain your wife, but not at the price you will have to pay, and so I have insisted that my uncles reverse the damage they have done to you.

They know that you and I are bonded on paper only and not physically, and they have admitted that they owe you for saving my life. I think they also are a little more worldly wise for living so long in your country than grandmamma. They have already set in motion the wheels to cancel the vows that they forced you to make. You are free, Senor Solo.

Grandmamma has been sent for, and she is on her way to join us here in America. My uncles are going to set me up in a place here, where I will be able to do what I enjoy the most; cooking good food for people to enjoy. It will be called Pia's Place. You must come and be our guests when we open in two months' time. I will write you then. All my love,

Your Pia."


	30. Chapter 30 WHAT IF? Introspective

**_WHAT IF….?_**

 ** _Napoleon sometimes intimidates the Russian with his superior intellect. Illya often annoys his partner by being a typical blond._**

 **INTROSPECTIVE**

Illya Kuryakin frowned into his coffee, unsettled and dissatisfied, trying to work out why. He had just been cleared by psychiatric after yet another spell as a prisoner of THRUSH.

Ever since Illya was assigned to the New York office, he had been determined to remain loyal to his chosen path.

He had confidence in his own intelligence. He had studied sciences and languages, he had PHDs in two or three subjects, and he knew what was what. He was also a crack shot with any sort of firearm. He had broken several of Napoleon Solo's records at Survival School, but none of it had prevented him from being singled out as the enemy, simply because of the accident of his birth. Being Russian was bad. Being a Russian who was a crack short with a pistol was very bad. Being an _intelligent_ , crack shot Russian made him an enemy who would show his true colours given enough time.

When he learned that he was being assigned to New York, rather than back to Moscow, he knew he had to take drastic steps. Fool them all. He was good at acting. If they were intimidated by a smart Russian, then he would play dumb for them. He grew his hair rather longer than the regulation length, perfected his shy smile technique and won the hearts of all the women.

At first it _was_ an act, but as time wore on, he realized how much he enjoyed playing on their sympathies, showing off his prowess in the gym, and each time he was hurt in the field, he enjoyed the attention he received, and played on it as much as he could.

If he thought about the effect his actions were having upon his partner, Napoleon, it was to smile at the sour looks Solo occasionally threw in his direction. Solo was the suave, debonair sort that women loved, but Illya was the shy, sweet little boy type that made them want to take care of him, and that suited Illya down to the ground. He was not interested in marriage, or any kind of permanent relationships with them. He simply enjoyed their company, and the way their adoration very neatly redirected people's attentions away from his nationality.

He had never hidden his intelligence under any sort of bushel, but to endeavor to remove the threat, he had contrived to add to it a certain level of buffoonery. To be, to all intents and purposes, a _dumb_ blond.

Illya was aware that very smart people frequently made foolish errors because of their habit of making use of mental `short cuts'. He had even made a rudimentary study of the phenomenon in the past in order to avoid falling into the same trap himself.

The one thing he had not reckoned on was Napoleon Solo.

Napoleon Solo seemed to be everything he was himself, and then some. In fact, the only thing he had which Napoleon did not, apart from his mouthful of languages, was a nationality that was generally despised by others.

Napoleon had not quite the same broad base of learning that he had had, but his intelligence was daunting, even to Illya. Working side by side with Napoleon, he often found himself slightly intimidated by his partner's quick-mindedness, feeling more than ever like the `dumb blond' stereotype that he had apparently fallen into.

Napoleon always came up with the clever plans to defeat or foil their enemies. Illya was almost always the bait, frequently doomed to be captured and then rescued by the ever-resourceful Napoleon.

Was he truly a male version of a dumb blond?

Illya swallowed the rest of his coffee and looked around the room at Heather and Lisa and Wanda and the rest, whom he knew would jump at the chance of a date with him; and then at Mark Slate, Gordon Niles and Simon Harker who seemed to respect him largely on the strength of his frosty glare; but otherwise directed all appeals for advice or information to Napoleon. Never to himself. They all seemed to think he was a dumb blond. Were they correct?

Was he truly acting, after all?


	31. Chapter 31 Second Guessing

SECOND GUESSING

Alexander Waverly looked from the viewing gallery into the critical care room of the medical department, his heart breaking as he watched the staff pumping the chest of his best agent, struggling to keep him alive, whilst his partner stood back against the farthest wall out of the way, watching the scene with wide, shocked eyes.

Usually it was the other way around. It was usually Napoleon sitting vigil over his partner, and one by one they had all died. It had always been a struggle to find a partner that could keep up with Solo, and each man whom had been partnered with the CEA had either been killed by their own foolish enthusiasm, or had been scared away and left section two. One man had left the command altogether and now delivered milk in Ohio. This man, Peter Adkins had seemed a much more likely fit, and he had outlasted all the others. At first, Waverly had got the impression that they had at last found the perfect man to partner Mister Solo, but then Solo was starting to get injured a lot more than before. Re-reading their individual reports and reading between the lines, Waverly was beginning to wonder if his initial thoughts had been in error after all. He tapped on the glass and Adkins turned. Waverly beckoned and Adkins nodded and left the room. They sat side by side in the viewing gallery, watching as Solo was finally stabilized once more.

"So, what happened Mister Adkins?"

"You have my report, sir."

"I know, but I cannot interrupt a report to ask questions. Tell me what happened? Why is it that Mister Solo always gets hurt when I send you out together on the simplest of missions; and yet I send him out alone on a very dangerous and risky mission and he comes back unharmed?"

Adkins' mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Finally, he turned to his boss.

"I always thought I was a good agent, Mister Waverly. When I was partnered with Josiah Willis, we were always successful, rarely either of us got hurt…I thought I could handle anything. Napoleon has lost too many partners, sir. I am not quite able to keep up with him, and he doesn't want me to end up dead or transferred like the others. I think he feels that it is a reflection upon him. As CEA, he feels responsible, so he has been…um…"

Waverly nodded.

"Taking the extra chances himself, where you would normally share the load."

"I wanted to transfer to section three, sir, but he would not hear of it."

"He feels that it is simply a matter of training. Get a good man and train him well enough…"

Waverly looked at the young man. Adkins was the ninth in a long succession of failed partners for Napoleon Solo. No one had quite the level of skill and intuition that would be needed to match Napoleon in the field, and successfully guard his back. Now it looked like a tenth may not be needed.

He thought back over the last five years, at the different men whom had come and gone from the command. None of them had had the so called "right stuff" had they…Waverly frowned suddenly. He recalled way back he had fought and struggled through red tape and diplomatic problems to secure the services of a promising young Russian agent whom had come through survival school with flying colours. He had even bettered some of Solo's Survival School records, and had even spent an extra month on the island passing on some of his expertise in explosives. Waverly had managed to get the young man assigned to New York, but he had been under such a barrage of dire threats about the repercussions from the Soviet Government if something happened to their agent, that he had eventually capitulated, and assigned the young man to work in section eight, down in the labs.

Young Kuryakin was a talented scientist, and seemed to enjoy the work. He had made great strides for the U.N.C.L.E during his time down there, too. He had created a new, slimline version of the communicators that was also a pen, a flashlight, a miniature rapier, and a compass. He had created an explosive device that could be carried by an agent invisibly as a false fingernail that could not be distinguished from the real thing. He had created miniature grenades that looked like blue jelly beans, but that rendered everyone within fifty feet unconscious for ten minutes. He had worked with the other scientists and with medical to create an antidote that could be safely given before a mission and helped give their agents additional protection against THRUSH truth serums.

Kuryakin had become the "lab man", the one technical genius that could be relied upon to come up with an answer to any operational problem. If the section two agents decided that they needed some new gadget to be designed for a particular purpose, it was the "lab man", Kuryakin they went to. They had never come away disappointed.

Waverly also recalled watching the young man on the practice range. He was aware that Kuryakin had, over the years he was here, taken care to keep his physical fitness and skills honed. Kuryakin's results on the range had been almost perfect. He was still a skilled sharpshooter, despite the years spent down in the labs. Still he was regularly to be found in the gym, and when one took the trouble to watch him, his strength and stamina were astonishing.

The young man had been something of an expert in languages too, when he came. He had spoken five fluently, and six others reasonably. Now it was a matter of record that his eleven languages were now all fluent, and he was in the process of learning several more. The man seemed to be a sponge, soaking up knowledge. Waverly wondered if he had an eidetic memory?

Had he been wrong to give in to the Soviet threats? Kuryakin had never once complained about his assignment to section eight. If he had come to New York expecting, as was reasonable, to be assigned to section two he had never said so. Waverly wondered how the young man would fare on the field now? He seemed like he had deliberately been keeping his field qualifications fresh and up to date, as though secretly hoping that he would one day be transferred to his real job. Perhaps now might be the time to ignore Soviet threats, and put young Kuryakin where he should have put him right at the start. In the field, as Napoleon Solo's partner.

He looked up as a siren went off in the critical care room in front of him, and he heard Adkins swear loudly.

The machines monitoring Napoleon Solo's life-signs showed only a straight line. Suddenly the noise was cut off, and a sheet was being draped over the man's face. Waverly went white with shock.

It was too late. Too late to correct his mistake. Too late to give Solo the partner he had deserved. Too late. Napoleon Solo was dead.

"Mister Waverly, wake up! Sir, wake up sir!"

Waverly jogged himself awake and stared with wide staring eyes at the face before him. Black hair, brown eyes, wide smile…Waverly rubbed his eyes and realized he was sitting slumped in a chair in the waiting room at medical. Napoleon Solo was sitting beside him.

"Are you alright, Mister Waverly?"

"Yes, yes, fine. I dropped off to sleep. I was…I must have been tired."

"Are you sure you're alright, sir? You were…er…you must have been dreaming. You seemed upset."

Waverly nodded.

"How is our young Russian friend?"

"Illya is out of danger, sir. They got him into surgery just in time. We'll get THRUSH sir, for what they have done. Fortunately, Illya is as strong as an ox. He'll be back in the field with me within a month."

Waverly nodded, fumbling for his handkerchief. Solo watched him, filled with concern.

"Are you sure you are alright, sir?"

"Yes. I was sitting here second guessing myself, Mister Solo. We have a huge asset here in the person of Mister Kuryakin, and the number of times we have almost lost him I started wondering what might have been different if I had put him in the lab rather than in section two."

"Is that what you were dreaming about? What happened in your dream, sir?"

Waverly walked to the window and looked down at the young Russian lying peacefully sleeping the other side of the glass, and then at his companion. He looked at Solo's worried expression and shook his head.

"He would be a huge asset to us down there, but…" he smiled. "I stand by my original decision. We need Illya Kuryakin right where he is. In the field."


End file.
